


The Ones We Die For

by Anonymous



Series: The Ones [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, College of Winterhold - Freeform, Eventual Romance, F/M, Interracial By Fantasy Standards, Main Quest - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Romance, The Companions (Skyrim) - Freeform, Thieves Guild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 118,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1222396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a smoke-filled tavern on the side of an untraveled road, a stranger flips a gold coin. It spins and spins and stops on its side, neither heads nor tails but the impossible between.</p><p>Elsewhere, the Worldeater finds himself thrust back into time, and seeks his revenge.</p><p>Two Dovahkiins fighting together is almost unheard of, but these are extraordinary times. The unaware heroes will have to overcome not only a civil war, their own tangled pasts, and the rising of the dragons, but also the instincts of a dovah to dominate over the others - alone, and without mercy. Do not expect a happy story - you will not find one here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. L - A Brief Taste of Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> Also found on tumblr under the url theoneswediefor. Updates will be chaotic and unexpected - kind of like dragon attacks. There is a plot, but it will be long. So long. Long enough that I need an entire excel document just to keep track of the character's locations at any given time in the several months this story will span.
> 
> Please help correct any mistakes you find in my lore - I try my best, but no one's perfect. Chapter titles are thought up on the spot, so they are shit. The story, hopefully, won't be.

In the early hours before dawn, a young Nord man lies wide awake in his hammock. One leg swings over the edge lazily, its movement making the rest of his body sway gently in the darkness. Someone nearby snores, and he grimaces. Just moments later, a chorus of snores from other men respond to the first snore, and he raises his hands over his face with a quiet groan.

This young man's name was Larjan Silvereyes a few years ago, but lately he just goes by Larjan, or 'prisoner'.

He should be exhausted, and he should be taking advantage of the five hours he and the others are allowed to sleep, but there's no rest for those with yearning in their hearts. After two years of going where he pleased and making just enough gold to get him from city to city, being trapped in the same place for what's bordering on three years now is too much for him. He aches for a breeze in the stuffy cabin he and the other prisoners rest their weary limbs in.

Larjan swings his other leg over the side of the hammock, and tilts his head as he listens for movement. There is none. The quiet breathing of the other men is even, broken only by the occasional quiet cough. He steps onto the packed dirt floor with his bare feet, and tiptoes past rows upon rows of occupied hammocks. The door squeaks, but Larjan is patient in his desperation. At long last he opens it wide enough for him to slip through, and he breathes in the scent of dew like a drowning man breathes in his first breaths of air. A stray torchbug hovers aimlessly past him, and he raises his fingers for it to drift across.

Every day he curses the circumstances that took this sort of freedom away from him. Every night he steals a glimpse of it back. He only needs to spend two more years in this place - two more years and they'll clear his name and he can go somewhere else - Hammerfell, maybe, or up to High Rock. He's had enough of Cyrodiil, in any case.

The silhouette of a slender figure darting across the rows of wheat snaps him out of his musings.

Larjan knows he should retreat to the cabin right away; climb into his hammock and close his eyes and pretend he saw nothing. But his curiosity gets the best of him, and he creeps closer to the place he saw the figure disappear. The rational part of him is yelling in his ear - they'll whip you if you're caught outside after hours, they'll whip you into a pulp like they whipped Bjeron and dump your stupid carcass in the same ditch - but he's been going through the same godsdamned routine for three years now, he's not going to pass up a little bit of excitement for once!

His path brings him closer and closer to the manor where the prisonmaster resides, but the adrenaline pumping in his veins pushes him forward. He finds the figure kneeling by the hay-filled shelter the chickens roost in. Female, by the look of the small and lithe frame that picks out eggs from the hay. Her fingers are long and rather gray in the dim moonlight - a Dark Elf, perhaps?

He steps forward for a closer look, and his weight unexpectedly snaps a stray twig under his foot. The figure flies into action faster than he would have thought possible, and he finds himself staring down the length an arrow shaft aimed at his neck.

"Yell and I put this arrow through your throat," a feminine voice snarls in slightly accented Common. Larjan stands straighter and raises his hands to show he means no harm.

"If I yell, you won't be the only one out for my skin," he says. "Are you stealing chicken eggs?"

"None of your business," the figure snaps, and steps closer. Out of the shadows cast by the prisonmaster's manor, he can see her a little more clearly. She's a Dark Elf all right, might even be pretty if she wasn't glowering at him with those huge red eyes. Larjan winces.

"Can we put the bow down?" he asks. "This isn't how I like to start off my day."

"If you yell..." she warns again. Larjan huffs impatiently.

"I told you, I'm not going to give you away. This is a prison, sweetheart. The master would be a lot more interested in what I'm doing outside than what you're doing."

"A prison?" the Elf says, tilting her head. She glares at him for another moment and lets her bow drop, placing the arrow back into the nearly-empty quiver on her back. "I had a feeling those fields were too big for one family to farm."

She turns her attention to the chicken eggs she pilfered from the shelter, and quietly knocks one against the shelter's wooden edge.

"I used to work the fields until I tried to run away," Larjan says, a little bit distracted by the sight of the Elf drinking the contents of the egg. _Who eats an egg raw? What's wrong with this woman?_ "Then they stuck me in the mines with the other troublemakers. What in Oblivion are you doing with that egg?"

"Eating," she says. "I'm hungry."

"It's raw," Larjan points out.

"If you want to light a fire outside your master's door, be my guest," she says, and offers him one of the eggs. He takes it with some hesitation, and sits down beside her. He's not so sure about her taste in food, but at least she's not pointing an arrow at him anymore. Besides, a little bit of conversation is nice. There's not a lot of time for that in the mines and most of the other prisoners are older and want nothing to do with the 'young scrap' he is, so he's been getting lonely.

"What's a Dark Elf doing in Cyrodiil?" he asks.

"What's a Nord doing in Cyrodiil?" she responds. "You are Nord, aren't you? Too blond to be anything else."

He's not sure why she has to ask - his features and colouring are as Nord as it gets. He takes after his mother.

"Yeah, I'm Nord," he says with a quiet laugh. "I was a sellsword, actually. Jumped from client to client until I met one that disagreed with me, and got myself landed in prison. And I've been here three years."

"Ever been to Skyrim?" she asks, and there's a challenging look in her eyes that both excites and frightens him.

"Grew up there."

"Want to go back?"

"Wouldn't say no to it," he muses, still rolling the egg around in his palms. "I'd be okay with anywhere but here."

They are quiet for a long time, and Larjan wonders how strange the two of them must look sitting side by side in a chicken shelter - her dark figure decked out in leather armour and furs that seem too rich to be worn by someone who's starving enough to be eating raw eggs, and his pale, rag-clad figure.

"I have a proposition," the Elf says finally. He turns to look at her, and finds her staring thoughtfully Northwards. "I free you, you take me to Skyrim and watch my back on our travels."

"How much gold are you suggesting, and where to in Skyrim?" he responds after a moment's deliberation.

"Gold?" she scoffs. "I'm setting you free. I think that's worth more than gold. You can either take the offer or rot here for the rest of your sentence. As for our destination... I haven't decided. Somewhere far away."

He leans his head on his hand and absent-mindedly draws a rough map in the dirt between them with one finger.

"All right," Larjan says. "How are you going to get me out?"

"I'll figure something out," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. "A distraction, if you please. Now go back to wherever you were before and get a good night's rest. We have a lot of distance to cover."

He returns to the cabin quietly, and is relieved to find that his absence has gone unnoticed. He tries to go to sleep, he really does, but all he can think about is seeing a blue sky for the first time in months and doing whatever he wants and _Skyrim_. So when dawn arrives and the other prisoners around him start to stir, he's already awake. He gets up and reaches for the pickaxe under his hammock, and that's when the screaming starts.

Larjan's as clueless as the other prisoners, and joins them outside to see what's going on.

The prisonmaster's manor is ablaze with a fire that seems too sudden, too hot to be natural. He gapes at it for a moment. The prisonmaster stands outside with his wife and their three crying children, all still in their nightgowns. The guards are all mysteriously absent.

"Don't just stand there, you imbeciles!" the prisonmaster yells. "Get water from the well, put it out!"

Before Larjan can make a move to help tame the inferno that has taken over the manor, a small hand slips into his and tugs him away, towards the line of trees that hems in the farm.

"Come on, come on!" the Elf cries, laughing her head off the entire way.

"This is your idea of a distraction?" Larjan bellows as he struggles to keep up with her agile pace as tree roots and sharp rocks cut at his bare feet.

"Isn't it fun?" she responds happily, and they run. They don't slow down until neither of them can breathe, and she pushes them both down into a crack between a rock formation. Larjan watches, slowly catching his breath, as she pulls out clean clothes and leather armour in his size. He prefers steel from the days he spent as a sellsword, but he'll take all the protection he can get.

"How good are you with a sword?" she asks, and he grins as she unclips the Elven sword at her hip and passes the sheathed blade to him.

"Good enough," he says.

"I'm holding you to that. Lead the way, Nord," she responds, and they set off.

 

...............................................................................................................................................................

 

They reach the border Cyrodiil shares with his home country about two weeks later.

Larjan still does not know very much about his Dark Elf companion, only that her name is Istha, she does not like lots of questions, and the rabbits she brings back for dinner are all clean shots through the eyes. And, most importantly, that she hasn't killed him in his sleep yet.   
  
They set up camp that night just a few hours from Skyrim's Southernmost edge, and as they gnaw on that night's rabbit's bones, he asks where they are going, why she has chosen Skyrim as their destination out of all the places they could go.

"Why not?" she responds, and he sighs. It's the only answer he's been able to get out of her.   
  
"I'll take first watch," he says, placing his new elven sword over his knees. She says nothing, but her long, pointed ears twitch as she unrolls her own fur blanket. It's not really necessary in the heat of summer, so he watches as she stretches out on top and closes her eyes. Her face is far more serene like this than when she is awake, and he appreciates the lack of a scowl on her sharp features from across the campfire.

The night is silent save for the humm of insect activity, and he lets her sleep. The quiet hours before dawn remain just as uneventful. The next morning, however, is anything but. Larjan's last desperate thought before he goes unconscious is that they never even stood a chance.


	2. I - Fire Can't Kill a Dragon

It doesn’t really matter which one of them originally had the idea to walk into a Stormcloak camp and see if they wanted to trade any goods, because the end result is the same.

Istha is furious. She wakes up in the cart with a pounding headache where the damned Imperial hit her with his shield and her beautiful bow is gone, as are all her arrows and fine crafted armor and jewellery. Her hands are tightly bound behind her back and the rope stinks of lavender. They are not taking chances with her magic. As someone who has always lived in wealth and respect, she is offended and searches for someone to blame. Larjan is at her side, also bound. He is deep in conversation with a Stormcloak soldier named Ralof, and they are both troubled by the politics that have led to their capture.

"There were rumors in the mines, of course, but I never realized it was this bad," Larjan says. "I’ve been away for too long."

"Idiots," she hisses. "We are going to die and you still care about the war?"

"We may die, but our sons and daughters have to live on in the world we leave behind," Ralof says, and Istha wants to punch him. "Until now, neither side had a strong advantage. But with Jarl Ulfric captured…"

Istha only then notices the other two occupants of their prisoner cart, and realizes that the gagged man in the corner glaring at them all is none other than the infamous man she hears talk of in the streets and markets. He is known, even in her country. It seems his legacy will be ending today.

Her stomach coils in tighter knots the more time passes. She knows, without needing to be told, what their captors plan to do with them.

"This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in," Ralof muses. She ignores him.

The gates open, the macabre parade marches on. A boy points at Istha. She keeps him in her gaze as long as she can, this innocent child who lives a few paces away from execution grounds. And then she is pushed out of the cart, stumbling forward without the use of her arms to balance her. She momentarily wishes she were a Khajiit, or an Argonian, to have a tail with which to right herself.

There is an Imperial soldier taking names. Larjan steps forward first.

“You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman,” says the soldier - Hadvar, he’s called. Istha sways slightly, feeling nauseous as Hadvar scans the list for Larjan’s name.

"He’s not on the list," the soldier says to the female Captain tapping her foot at his side.

“Of course he’s not, he’s been in Cyrodiil for the last four years and didn’t even know there was a civil war until this morning, you really think he had time to conspire against the empire?” Istha says, vitriol on the tip of her tongue. The Captain backhands her face, and Istha falls to her knees. Her cheek burns, both with the strike and the shame. She considers using magic to get the bindings off her wrists, but...

“She hasn’t done anything!” Larjan shouts, putting himself between Istha and the Captain.

“I like to kill problems before they cause too much havoc,” the captain says, and with a casual hand wave Larjan is dismissed. The Imperials’ attention turns to Istha. She debates telling them her real name, but here in Skyrim it is unlikely that her bloodline will make as great an impression as in Morrowind. So she gives them her new name - the one she told Larjan when she freed him, the one she hoped to make a new life under. She supposes dying under it could be poetic.

“Istha of House Telvanni,” she says, struggling to her feet. Hadvar gives her a sympathetic smile, and doesn’t even bother to look at the list.

“Gods really have abandoned your people, Dark Elf. I’m sorry,” he says, and Istha follows Larjan. Magic itches under her skin and she aches to shoot a bolt of lightning through the Captain’s smug face but there’s no way out of these bonds now. She’s so lost in thought that she doesn’t even notice the horse thief attempting escape and failing just a stone’s throw away, nor the speech condemning Ulfric Stormcloak for his crimes.

While she still can, she prays. The priestess who stands by the execution block prays for the other prisoners, but Istha has her own gods. She has not prayed in years, but she does now, seeking forgiveness in whatever way possible. The Tribunal may take pity on her yet. Everything seems hopeless, until she hears it. Most of the other figures in the courtyard are human; all Nords or Imperials by the look of them. No one else seems to register the faint roar in the distance, or if they do, they take no note of it. She stands alert, poised on the tips of her toes as a Stormcloak soldier volunteers to go first and get it over with. She casts her face to the sky and tries not to think about the sound the axe makes when his head is detached from the rest of him. A collective hush falls on the line of captives.

Larjan is called next. Fear rushes up in her, for this man she barely knows who is still somehow the only person in this fort she holds any warmth for. He got her out of Cyrodiil, didn’t he?

“Wait!” she calls out, and stumbles after him. Larjan turns, surprise clearly evident on his face.

She kisses him. He’s quite a bit taller and without the use of their arms her sudden weight makes him take a pace back, but she kisses him nonetheless and he kisses back, and afterwards she tells everyone that she was only stalling for time but if she got another chance she wouldn’t mind kissing him again. The Imperial officer frowns upon displays of affection and resilience in the face of imminent execution, and they are separated quickly and none-too-gently.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you,” Larjan says as he is pushed towards the execution block. The soldiers shove him roughly. He looks apologetically over his shoulder at her once more, and the defiance she felt burning in her gut when she kissed him fades as he is forced to kneel. They don’t even move the body of the previous Stormcloak soldier. Where is the honour?

"Don't look, Istha!" Larjan calls, and she thinks that his choice of last words is poor. She doesn’t close her eyes, can’t close them and won’t for Larjan’s sake, and that’s why she sees the dragon.

_But really, it’s not like it’s particularly easy to miss._

She burns her forearms freeing herself, but through the adrenaline rush she can’t even feel the flames licking at her flesh as the ropes binding her hands crumble away to ash and fly up in front of her. The dragon lands on the tower in front of her, terrifyingly close to Larjan, and the entire world seems to tilt as it roars. Strangely, she feels almost as though it's speaking... but that's ridiculous. What do giant winged lizards know about linguistics? The execution is forgotten as everyone, Stormcloak and Imperial alike, runs from the creature.

Everyone, that is, but Istha. As soon as she catches her balance on the shaking ground she wills a stronger fire in her palm and thrusts it forward with the strength of her mind. Larjan struggles to his feet and she runs to him, putting herself between him and the creature that has appeared straight out of her worst nightmares. A quick flame disintegrates his own bonds, and then she is back to throwing every flame and ice spell she has in her command at the monstrous dragon.

Larjan is shouting something, she’s not sure what, and she struggles as he drags her backwards away from the dragon. He overpowers her eventually, being far stockier and taller, and she insults his breeding the whole way. He doesn’t let her out of his arms until they are inside another tower, surrounded by wary Stormcloak soldiers who have escaped from one sure death only to be plunged into another.

"Are you crazy? That’s a dragon! You can’t kill it with a little bit of fancy magic!" Larjan shouts. Istha blinks.

“What was that earlier about protecting the world for our descendants?” she retorts. Behind him, Ralof slaps a hand to his face and groans. The intimidating gagged man known to the others as Ulfric Stormcloak is there as well, now free to speak. Istha eyes him uncertainly. She doesn’t think being in his presence is very safe.

"Up through the tower, hurry," Ralof says. Larjan looks like he wants to say something else but before the words make it out of his mouth, the side of the tower implodes.

Stone, flying through the air with a deadly momentum given by the monstrous dragon’s roars. A soldier is crushed, but Istha cannot bring herself to pay him attention. She wants to live. She did not escape her fate in Cyrodiil only to burn to a crisp in Skyrim. She sprints up the crumbled stairs, towards the opening the dragon has just made. Larjan follows, yelling obscenities her way. She wishes he would stop, it's giving her a bit of a headache. Istha stops at the edge of the destroyed stone, glances down at the distance she has to fall.

"Jump and keep going! We’ll meet you later!" Ralof shouts encouragingly from below.

She prays, and leaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice that I don't stick with canon dialogue. We've all gone through it already, so it's more interesting if I mix it up a little, yes? No sense in repeating ourselves.
> 
> (Yes the title is a shameless Game of Thrones reference. I'm so sorry.)


	3. L - Unbound At Last

Maybe it’s the fact that the Dunmer typically lead such long lives that makes Istha so reckless with her years. She’s so confident in the number of years left to come for her that she doesn’t even pause for breath at the top of the stairs before throwing herself out of a goddamn tower.

Larjan is very much human, thank you, and has a shorter lifespan that he doesn’t particularly wish to further shorten. It's no surprise that he’s not nearly as excited by the prospect of that drop. But Istha lands safely, even has the nerve to wave up at him. The dragon lands on a parapet off to the side and opens its mouth in his direction so he jumps without another thought.

The landing takes all the air out of him, and he grunts heavily as pain shoots up through his heels and into his legs.

"Shh," Istha says soothingly as she kneels and heals both his ankles until the throbbing has diminished and he can walk. He sees the burns on her forearms where she set the ropes on fire and jumps away. 

“By Talos, Istha, save some of that magic for your arms! They look terrible,” he says. She appears to notice the burns for the first time and shrugs. 

“They can wait. I don’t need them to walk,” she says, standing up. He doesn’t know how to answer that.

"Into the house," he says, and they duck into a wooden building that was perfectly unburned just a few minutes ago. "How do we get out of here?" he hisses, coughing as he breathes in smoke. 

“This way,” Istha says. They run out into the street through another hole in the house’s wall. There is no cover here and he thinks he will die at any given moment but somehow they make it to Helgen’s keep. The Imperial soldier that looked sympathetic stands by a door and motions for them to run in. Istha almost sets off towards him, but Larjan stops her before she gets too far.

"Towards Ralof," he says, nudging her to the side. The Stormcloak rebel is waiting for them by another door, his hand extended towards them in invitation.

“Does it matter?” Istha asks. “They’re all bastards.”

“These particular bastards haven’t tried to execute us yet,” Larjan says pointedly as they enter Helgen keep. He thanks Ralof as the heavy wooden doors close behind them. The blond man smiles sadly and points to the body of a fallen Stormcloak soldier. Larjan wonders if they were friends.

“Nordsman, take Gunjar’s equipment. He won’t be needing it anymore,” he says. Larjan hesitates, looking at the rags Istha has been dressed in - a far cry from the rich furs she was wearing when she came into Skyrim. He feels guilty taking the armor while she stands there shivering. “You’ll be fighting in close combat. You, Dark Elf, you’re a mage, right? Stay out of the way and back us up where you can until we find you some gear as well,” Ralof says. Istha nods at Larjan and he strips Gunjar, trying not to think too hard about the fact that he is wearing a dead man’s armor and wielding an axe that did not do its previous owner much good.

He pulls the boots over his feet just in time - the Imperial Captain and another soldier burst into the small room they are in through a gate, and Larjan takes a few swings at them to get used to the balance of the axe in his hand. He much prefers a sword. The Captain goes down in flames, and he glances over his shoulder to see Istha grinning toothily. She rejects the Imperial armor, telling Ralof she would rather not be impaled by any overzealous rebel friends of his, and they set off through the keep. Larjan mostly hangs back and lets Ralof lead them through the keep, worried about Istha’s vulnerability and not wanting to leave her unprotected. She’s obviously confident in her magic, but he doesn’t think the flickering flames in her palms are really something one should trust with their life. Magic is fickle to a Nord. He is relieved when she finally finds herself a quiver of arrows and an Imperial bow to use after her energy reserves start to run low, though he’s not so sure about the mage’s robes she gladly loots from the torturer’s cell.

"Suit yourself," he says. Istha bares her teeth at him. Her lips are a dark, inviting shade and he thinks to himself that he should tell her she’s welcome to kiss him again if she feels the urge to. But later. This is not the time, nor the place. He doesn't know much about Dunmer culture, but if he had to guess he'd say dragon attacks don't usually make for romantic settings. He wants to assure their survival first. 

"Wait," Ralof says, once they’ve made their way through an extensive maze of rooms and caves and left only bodies in their wake. "There’s a bear there. I’d suggest sneaking past it, though you’re welcome to take your chances with a bow."

"There’s not much fun in that," Larjan says, and charges it. 

He hears Istha make a sound of frustration behind him, but is far too busy sinking his axe into the matted fur at the bear’s neck to respond. Luckily his companions rush in to back him up as the bear rises to its feet and whirls on him with a furious snarl. It takes the three of them to kill it. There is a cut on Larjan’s shoulder where Gunjar’s chain mail didn’t quite protect him, but Istha doesn’t have much magic left and curtly tells him to let her rest before she heals him. It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt that much anyway. Still, Larjan is relived when they finally find a passage out of the cave. He breathes in the dusk air with appreciation. They hear the dragon roar, but he is far off enough that no one is incredibly worried. Ralof urges them to continue on to Riverwood. Larjan perks up at the sound of a familiar town.

"I don’t care where we go as long as we put some distance between us and that dragon," Istha mutters. They find a road and follow it, weapons at hand. Larjan is exhausted but says nothing, knowing it’s not safe to stop on the road. He wishes he still had the elven sword Istha gave him a few days ago. He liked that weapon. He does pause, however, when he sees the Guardian Stones standing sentry over the cobblestone path.

"Istha," he says. "Come get a proper Skyrim greeting."

She approaches the stones warily, examining the engravings on each of the three monuments but not touching them.

"These are Standing Stones, they’re all over Skyrim. They give blessings. What will it be, Elf? Thief, Mage or Warrior?" he says proudly. Istha gives him a look as though to say "Do you really have to ask?"

She places her hand on the Mage Stone and it glows beneath her touch, shooting a beam of pure light up into the darkening sky.

"The Mage Stone, eh? Well, I suppose it could be useful," Ralof says, and he exchanges a look with Larjan.

"My mother brought me here when I was about ten, with my siblings," Larjan says softly, remembering her. "Every single one of us chose Warrior. I guess that’s a Nord thing."

“Come on, let’s go,” Ralof urges, and they continue on to Riverwood to meet with Ralof’s sister, who he promises will grant them safety and supplies. It’s already quite late at night when they reach Riverwood, but Ralof assures them he will let them sleep after they speak with Gerder and Hod. Larjan lets Ralof do the talking. Istha sways tiredly at his side and he wraps an arm around her shoulders in a manner he hopes is vaguely comforting. She leans into him slightly and doesn’t singe his hair off, so he takes that as a sign of good will.

Gerder and Hod seem impressed by the events at Helgen, but worry about their own small town. Larjan doesn’t blame them. There’s an awful lot of timber here, and he’s seen firsthand the flames that come out of that dragon’s mouth… He shudders. No one should have to face that monster. When they ask him and Istha to take a message to the Jarl of Whiterun, Larjan instantly says yes just as Istha says no. They look at each other. Istha glares first at her companion, then at the Riverwood locals.

"We thank you for your hospitality. But I do not think Larjan and I will be welcome there, nor do I want to be your errand girl. We have… matters… to attend to," she says vaguely. Larjan snorts. 

“We’ll be fine, Istha. You’re with me, remember? Besides, you said you didn’t really have a plan besides staying low,” Larjan says. 

“Yes, and we’ve definitely accomplished that, what with getting captured with the damn leader of the Stormcloak rebellion, and then nearly being burned to a crisp by the first dragon anyone’s seen in centuries. We’re doing a great job so far, we should absolutely march into a large city and demand to speak to a powerful man surrounded by lots of guards that will be out to get us!” Istha says. Gerder and Hod look immensely interested in their argument. Larjan feels his patience running out.

“Do you want my protection or not?” he asks shortly, interrupting the dark elf’s tirade. Istha glowers, but appears to curl in on herself, her shoulders hunching forward and her body turning away from Larjan as though to protect herself from physical blows. Larjan immediately feels guilty.

“I’m sorry. Look, it’s the least we can do for these people. We’ll be in and out, real quick. No more trouble, I promise. Whiterun’s on the way to my mother’s house, we’ll set off for her as soon as we deliver the message,” Larjan says, trying to speak softer. 

“Fine,” Istha says quietly, her voice small. He feels horrible. 

“Ralof, somewhere for us to sleep, please?” he asks. 

“Sleeping Giant Inn,” Ralof says. “Delphine will give you a room, if she’s still running the place. Stern woman, that one, but she’ll give a fair price.”

Larjan thanks him and his sister, gratefully accepting their offer of supplies to take in the morning and gently directs Istha towards the inn Ralof pointed out.

"If you’re okay with it, I think we should get one room," he says to her once they’re inside and the warmth of the fire melts some of the tension in his bones. "We need to save gold, especially since we lost all your supplies to the soldiers…"

“Okay,” Istha says, her tone sleepy. He roots around in their pack for the meagre amount they looted off of Imperial corpses in the skirmishes beneath Helgen. It’s been an exhausting day. It doesn’t really matter that they share a bed, he thinks as he drifts off, because neither of them is awake very long after that. He's so tired that he'd probably fall asleep instantly even if he didn't hear her slow, deep breaths beside him. But it doesn't hurt to know someone's nearby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to bluRaaven, I read over everything I have written and noticed that I do use an awful lot of commas. No one's ever pointed that out to me! I'll try to trim some of them out, but I am very fond of the silly little things.
> 
> As for two Dragonborns... You will see, friend. They are both quite necessary to the other's survival. Eventually. Muhaha.


	4. I - Every Lost Puppy From Here to Whiterun

Istha wakes up before Larjan, braids her long hair and dresses quietly as to not wake him. The enchanted robes she took from the dead mage in Helgen had been made for a human male and are far too big for her, but she rolls up the sleeves and ties a leather cord around her waist so she isn't swimming in it. She hopes she's able to find some proper Elven armour soon to replace the set she lost in her capture. 

The Riverwood blacksmith, as it turns out, has nothing of the sort for her, but she sells him all the unnecessary weaponry she picked up in Helgen - iron daggers and the sort. Whiterun, apparently, is a far bigger town. Alvor says she might be able to find what she's looking for there, but that it will be pricy. Istha buys his entire stock of iron arrows and excuses herself out of further conversation as soon as she can. 

She doesn't like Riverwood. Too close to whatever remains of Helgen. She doesn't think the Imperials will put a great deal of importance on recapturing the prisoners that have managed to flee, but she also doesn't feel particularly safe here. Of course, she doesn't feel safe anywhere. A child playing with a dog stares at her as she walks to the Riverwood Trader. 

"Mama, why is that woman's skin gray?" 

Istha doesn't turn her head, though it is ridiculous to pretend she did not hear the high-pitched question. 

"Hush! Don't speak of things like that."

To her surprise, she finds Larjan in the Trader, chatting up the man behind the counter like they are lost brothers. Though, she supposes, they could be, since this is Larjan's homeland after all. She doesn't see any resemblance between the men, but then, all humans look the same to her. Larjan is hard to miss because his bright blonde hair and pale eyes make him look like a ghost, but everyone else blends into a bland shade of beige.

"Good morning," Larjan says as he notices her. She nods her head slightly in his direction, but makes no other move. That man is far too talkative for his own good. If he doesn't learn to hold his tongue every once in a while, she will resort to cutting it off.

"Lucan here was just telling me about some bandits that broke in and stole his Golden Claw!" Larjan says, and she sees the call of adventure in his eyes. 

"Are you going to stop to help every puppy from here to Whiterun?" Istha asks, curling her lip in distaste. An attractive woman sitting at a nearby table collapses into giggles. Larjan apparently doesn't get Istha's point, or chooses to ignore it, because he answers with the words "And beyond."

"Can I help you with something?" Lucan asks stiffly, evidently not fond of being referred to as a puppy. 

"We need enough supplies to last us to Whiterun, assuming we don't wander offtrack," Istha says, and rattles off a short list with a sideways glance at the determined set of Larjan's jaw. He really thinks he can hunt down those bandits, doesn't he? Idiot. She watches Lucan dig around in various barrels and on shelves until he brings them everything she asked for. 

"You won't need much, it's only about a days walk from here," he says. 

"Yes, but this one," Istha says with a sideways jerk of her head in Larjan's direction, "Gets lost easily."

"I will lead you straight into a giant's camp," Larjan threatens, and Istha doesn't take him seriously until she remembers that Skyrim really does have giants. 

"Have a good day," Lucan says as they walk out of his shop, and Istha mutters a retort under her breath.

"Are all Dark Elves as rude as you?" Larjan asks as they walk over the bridge that leads out of Riverwood. Istha shrugs. She's still sore from the events of yesterday and the faint burns that remain on her forearms are tingling in an awfully distracting way. She doesn't want to listen to her Nord companion criticise her manners. They walk in silence for a while, preoccupied with their own priorities. Istha stops to collect alchemical ingredients growing between the cobblestones of the road they follow - a mountain flower here, a sprig of lavender there, while Larjan remains ever wary of danger on the horizon, and keeps an eye out for wolves and bandits that might try to take them by surprise. Istha tries not to think about what will happen if another dragon appears. There's no cover on the open road.

Eventually, they come to a fork in the road. Well, less of a fork, and more of a barely visible path leading off the main road and up the rocky slope of a mountain. Larjan stops walking and gives Istha a hopeful look. 

"Oh no," she says, shaking her head. "You are not dragging me on a wild goose chase for some pretty trinket. The trader can retrieve his own claw, if he likes it that much."

"There might be gold in it for us," Larjan says. "And - and!" he puts a finger to Istha's lips as she opens her mouth to argue. The surprise of his warm touch is the only thing that stills the words in her throat. "You said you wanted to stay low. What better place to stay low than in an underground Nordic tomb?"

"A tomb that happens to be on a mountain. If what I know of geography is correct, mountains are the exact opposite of 'low'. Come on, Larjan, we have better things to do," Istha says. Larjan continues pleading, but Istha clamps a hand over his mouth. 

"Shush! I hear voices!"

Sure enough, there is a conversation being held between at least two people just over the next hill. Istha freezes when she hears 'Helgen' mentioned. Larjan apparently hears it as well, because he grabs her wrist - Istha bites her lip to keep from screaming as her burns protest the contact - and drags her behind a nearby rock outcropping. 

She presses her back to the rock between them and the road and quietly summons a healing spell. The pain fades slightly, but the skin on her forearms is still a flushed shade of purple that she doesn't think is healthy. She's kept an eye out for any plants along their trip that reduce the effect of fire, but hasn't seen anything she recognizes. Skyrim is very different from Morrowind and Cyrodiil.

"An Imperial patrol, escorting a prisoner. There's just two of them, but there may be more on the way," Larjan whispers as he peeks over the moss-covered rock.

"Larjan," Istha says after a moment of irritated deliberation. 

"Yes, Istha?" he asks.

"Let's go to that tomb of yours," she says with a heavy sigh. He grins at her and pinches her cheeks affectionately. Istha snarls and shoves him off, then turns away and pats her cheeks. The golden war-paint that curls down to the sides of her jaw is still there, thankfully. Call her vain, but she's fond of her flame-like markings. 

Larjan walks up the slope of the mountain with a spring in his step and Istha has half a mind to shoot an arrow into the back of his head and be done with it. But she has to admit his ungainly lope is endearing somehow. And besides, as a slender, inexperienced, and poorly-equipped Dunmer female walking Skyrim's roads alone, she would be a prime target for those who wish to harm. No, she took Larjan with her for a reason. He is in her debt, at least until she gets her bearings in this new land. She will keep him alive, and he will keep her alive. Just as she thinks this, an arrow whizzes past Larjan's knee and buries itself in the grass near her feet. Istha grabs it and steps sideways in one smooth motion, her other hand already pulling the bow off her shoulder and loading the arrow. Larjan has his hands up and he's glancing around wildly for their attacker, but like Istha, sees no one. 

"We just want to talk!" Larjan shouts. The rocks do not answer them. Istha snorts. 

"Unlikely."

Another arrow thuds into a tree stump beside Istha. She'd be offended by the attacker's horrendous aim, if she weren't more offended by the fact that they are being attacked in the first place. A yell sounds from above, and a bandit wielding a battleaxe comes running at them. Istha lets the arrow loose into his side, her aim not quite as perfect as usual due to the adrenaline making her fingers tremble. The bandit grunts in pain but doesn't lose his momentum. Larjan finally pulls out his own axe and meets the bandit face to face. Istha takes a deep breath, and releases a second arrow into the man's throat. He gurgles and falls to his knees, and dies at Larjan's feet. First Helgen, now Bleak Falls Barrow. She's a little disturbed by how similar shooting a person is to shooting an animal. 

"Come on," Istha says, holding her head up high and marching forward to hide her discomfort. She keeps an eye out for the archer as Larjan loots the bandit's pockets. 

"Some gold and a healing potion," he tells her as they continue up the path and find a stone staircase.

"Could be useful," she answers, and then there is no more talk because the archer reveals herself and a third bandit hurtles towards them. 

"Is the entire barrow going to be like this?" Istha asks despairingly when they stand victorious. Larjan kicks lightly at the body of a bandit. 

"Maybe we can convince the next ones we run into to reform. You know. Renounce their life of crime and become hunters or merchants," he says, but he doesn't sound like he has a great deal of faith in his own words.

"People don't change," Istha says. 

"Some do," Larjan answers. He smiles at her, but his eyes remain sad. Istha turns away and opens the doors to the tomb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys thank you so much for attention you've given this story. It's my very first Skyrim fanfic and I didn't think anyone would read at all, but every time I get another comment or kudos I fall over sobbing. I've got huge plans for this story, though I've got to get through the generic start first. Don't worry. Things will be mixing up soon enough. :)


	5. L - Your Friends Are All Dead

When Larjan was about twelve or thirteen winters old - he can't remember exactly how many, only that he was old enough to want to see the world and young enough to almost kill himself doing it - he and a small group of Nord children decided to explore an old tomb. Most of them were the children of hunters; wild forest children raised on berries and venison and blood. Larjan's father had taken him on a trip to a nearby trading outpost, and the children who lived there had lured him away with promises of gold and adventure. 

He remembers that tomb when they enter Bleak Falls. He especially remembers his first glimpse of a draugr, his heartbeat pounding in his ears when one of the party was dared to go poke the shrivelled, skeletal creature. It hadn't been dead. Or at least, dead enough. Larjan still wasn't sure how the rest of them had gotten out of that tomb alive. One of the girls had screamed when the draugr-thing had clamped onto the wrist of the boy that had woken it, and more had started bursting out of coffins not long later. 

For that reason, he is wary as he follows Istha inside. Not scared - he is older now than he was when he fled from that first tomb with the others and left his new friend to die, and he is dangerous now - but he knows they need to take care.

His mismatched armour doesn't allow for very good sneaking, but he does his best to mimic Istha as she travels in a snaking path behind columns and rubble piles towards the back of the hall. Though he doesn't understand how she manages it, he tries to step as lightly as she does. It doesn't work - he knows he's made too much sound as soon as he trips over a small stone and the voices near the back of the cavern still in the middle of a conversation about a man named Arvel. Istha has her bow out in front of her already, and for a minute he's sure she will shoot him then and there from the glare she gives him. 

But there is no time for that, not when they are already under attack. 

For a brief moment, the sound of clashing iron and steel fills the cavern, and then Larjan stands alone, the bandits sprawled around him. His thigh is bruised from the heavy hit of a warhammer against his armour and the dent in the thin metal presses against his sore skin with every movement but his injuries are nothing compared to those of his enemies. They have died the way they have lived, he thinks, seeing the anger still etched upon the bloody face of a nearby Redguard woman. He thinks about the bandits they left outside, and makes a mental note to return to them as well. They can spare a moment for prayer, can't they?

"Hurry up."

"Hold on," Larjan says, and he closes the Redguard woman's eyelids with two hesitant fingers. Her mouth is still frozen in a grimace, but he brushes a strand of hair out of her face and places her hands on her chest and thinks to himself that at least it's a little better now. He does similar things to the other bandits. Istha makes huffy sounds, but lets him do his thing as she pokes around the possessions strewn about the hall and relieves the dead men and women of their gold. He's not sure how he feels about that.

"Now are you done?" 

Larjan glances to the shadows, where a pair of wine-red eyes blinks at him. Istha is impatient; he can tell because her ear flicks when she's bored. He still knows nothing about his companion, he thinks with a wry smile, but at least he's learned to read some of the strange expressions and gestures she makes. Dark Elves are strange creatures. 

"I don't want to be stuck in this hole the rest of the month," Istha complains, and Larjan starts telling her that ancient Nord burial grounds are far more hallowed than just holes, thank you very much, but even he can see that the old tomb has far past its age of grandeur. He walks its tunnels and runs his hand over the cracks in the walls where vines have burst the stone apart, and almost walks into Istha's back when she halts in front of a room. 

"Poison," she says, licking her lips, and a moment later he can feel the weight in the air as well. There is a bandit collapsed over a lever in the middle of the floor, his body riddled with tiny darts. They shove him to the side and eat a small lunch as they muse their options. 

Larjan's the one who has the idea to match the pillars up with the old carvings on the wall. When it works and they don't meet a quick and paralytic death, he's rather shocked. He was never considered clever as a child. Istha seems impressed, though of course it's almost impossible to tell with her sharp features.

He leads the way down a spiral staircase made of wood so rotted through he thinks it will collapse under his weight, and is so focused on the placement of his steps that he almost doesn't notice the skeevers until they squeal. Skeevers are easy to kill after three years spent locked in a mine with the damned creatures, but it doesn't make him like them any more. 

"Someone's up ahead," Istha whispers, cocking her head and listening intently. "Arvel, do you think?"

"Who?" Larjan asks. Istha shoots him a look. 

"Weren't you listening?" Istha says. Larjan thinks to himself that he has bigger priorities than listening to the ramblings of gold-starved bandits sitting around twiddling their thumbs in a crypt, but bites back his retort. It's no use arguing with the Elf, she does things her way regardless of what he thinks. 

"Is someone coming?" a desperate voice screeches from a web-infested room ahead. "Is that you Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?"

"Your friends are all dead," Istha deadpans as they approach the little Elf trapped within the webs. Larjan winces. They've really got to talk about her atrocious manners.

"Help!" Arvel cries. "Don't let it get me!"

At first Larjan thinks he means Istha. He opens his mouth in a rather offended way to tell him she's not all that bad, only to have the spider that had been lurking above their heads land on his back. It's heavier than it looks and the sound of those clicking pincers so close to his head sends Larjan into survival mode. He can't use his axe from this position, but he twists his hands and forces the small amount of magical energy he has in himself into the form of a fire. It's pathetic compared to the licking flames that Istha is so fond of, but it's enough to make the spider click and retreat enough that he can roll away. 

He gets to his feet in time to see Istha stab an arrow through the creature's head with her fist.

"The bow was too far away," she replies in answer to his raised eyebrow, but Arvel's continued screeching prevents further banter. 

Larjan knows, somehow, that the Dark Elf will run from them before Istha cuts him loose, and he swears at the bandit in his head as they chase him deeper into the tomb. His death comes so quickly that Larjan barely his time to process the spiked gate that swings forward and crushes Arvel against a wall, and then Istha is screaming and he becomes preoccupied with the three draugr climbing out of their resting places, blue eyes glowing with unlife.

Istha doesn't stop screaming, so he pushes her behind him and swings his axe into the neck of the first one that advances towards him. In the excitement of the puzzle gate and chasing Arvel down, he forgot to warn her about the tomb's infamous guardians. The first draugr falls with a few strokes of his axe but the damned blade gets stuck in the ribcage of the second one and the final growling draugr charges him while he's still trying to get his weapon out of the stupid creature. He thinks this is what the hunter's son felt like when he died ten years ago, and then to his surprise a blaze of flame comes from behind him and engulfs the skeletal man. He breathes out in relief as it collapses to the ground.

He turns and approaches Istha warily, hands out with the palms up to show peace. She is sobbing, shoulders hunched, two small flames still burning in each palm. 

"It's okay," Larjan says soothingly, his hands taking hers and closing her fingers to extinguish the fire-magic. "They're all dead, it's just you and me. You're safe."

"W-what are those things?" she asks through choked sobs. 

"Draugr. Ancient Nords who lost their honour in life and so were cursed to defend the tombs of the worthy after their death, until they regained it," Larjan says, and it shocks him how easily his father's words come to him. Funny, he hasn't thought about his father's stories in years, not since he died. 

He moves away from Istha's side and rifles through Arvel's pockets with his head down in order to give her some privacy. By the time he finds Lucan's golden claw, her breathing has calmed and her eyes look... Well, they're always red, but the surrounding skin has faded back to its usual gray instead of purple. Those same red eyes watch him as he picks up a greatsword discarded by one of the draugr and examines it. 

"This is good smithing," he marvels, turning the hilt over in his hands. "I think I'll keep it."

Istha nods in approval as he removes the draugr's sheath and fits it onto his own back. 

"Those things, the draugr," she says, choosing her words carefully. "Do they get back up again later?"

"I don't think so," Larjan says, but he doesn't actually know. The shrivelled bodies at their feet don't look like they're walking around any time soon, but who can say?

"And there will be more in the rest of the tomb?"

"Most likely. Do you want to go back? We have the claw, after all..." he says, trailing off as they both look at the depths of the tomb still left unexplored. Istha is silent. 

"I get to kill the next one," she says eventually, and reaches for her bow. Larjan smiles to himself as they continue. 

They fall into a comfortable rhythm in the rest of the tomb, and Larjan muses upon the fact that he never imagined he'd feel comfortable in a crypt full of the walking dead, but Istha's presence calms him. They make it past more challenges - not just draugr but also swinging axes and trapped gates, until they reach the ringed stone door. The Hall of Stories is cold, but safe. They sleep there for a few hours, until Istha shakes Larjan awake and tells him she's figured out the door. Her eyes blaze with an excitement he hasn't seen from her yet. They open it together.

Istha hangs back, an arrow at the ready as Larjan walks forward into the natural cave, but nothing leaps out at them. He admires the high ceiling of the cavern and the soft blue light that emanates from patches of glowing mushrooms that dot the stone walls. A river babbles under his feet as he crosses a small bridge and walks up the steps to a pavilion of sorts where a curved stone wall towers over a chest and a sarcophagus that he eyes warily. 

He glances back at Istha, who is poking a mushroom with interest, and then to the wall. Now that he is closer he can see strange markings on it, deep strokes and dots gouged into the rock surface. He knows it to be a language, somehow, but not one he has ever seen. 

It calls to him. _Fus._

He walks forward as if in a trance, and the mist parts as the world recedes and all that is left is his mind and the carvings that glow white-hot and brand themselves on the inside of his eyelids. _Fus!_ He falls to his knees. The sarcophagus bursts open behind him, but he is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying to resist falling into the trap of taking the chapter titles from Istha's many snarky lines. Larjan's snark is a little less visible, simply because he doesn't usually see a point to sarcasm and prefers to meet things head on. These two, I swear.


	6. I - Following the Yellow Brick Road

Istha waits a long time for Larjan to wake up. She munches on some cheese while he slumbers with his head in her lap, and tries not to get crumbs on his face. She is mostly successful. She watches him as he sleeps, and traces the lines on his face with a hesitant finger.

He's not very old; a baby by the years that her people measure their lifespans by, but there are already deep creases of worry in his forehead and around his eyes. He says he was in that mine for three years before she came along and raised hell, but she knows all too well how darkness can make time stretch into a longer and more unbearable version of itself.

She doesn't know what standards humans judge their handsomeness by, but Larjan's face has quickly become a welcome sight to her. She hisses in displeasure. She's grown dependent on this strange man in just a few weeks of travel. Her once-brother would make fun of her, she knows, if they could see her now showing affection to a 'ghost', but the ghost in question is fast asleep and there is no one else around to mock her. Istha frowns and smooths down his blond hair, rubs a splatter of blood off his jaw. She waits for his eyes to open, for a glimpse of that pale blue gaze and the quick smile she is usually rewarded with when it falls on her.

Larjan wakes up, finally, and seems surprised to still be alive. She rearranges her face into an impassive expression.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey yourself. Have a good nap?" she asks, tucking her hands behind her back innocently and hoping he didn't feel her touch in his unconsciousness. He makes a face as he sits up and tears a bit of cheese off from the chunk in her hand in retaliation. She pushes her pack towards him in response, telling him to get his own damn cheese.

"What happened?" he asks, looking around at the misty cave. The tomb on the pavilion has been cracked open, but the draugr that must have been inside is missing.

"He's over there somewhere," Istha says vaguely, gesturing to the side when she sees him scanning the cave. "I started pumping his ugly face full of arrows as soon as you decided to knock yourself out, and he left you alone rather quickly."

Larjan cranes his neck and looks at the curve of the stone wall whose shelter they now rest in. The markings remain, but the glowing and strange chanting were gone when Istha woke up.

"That was dumb of me, wasn't it?" he asks. Istha shakes her head.

"I don't think so. As soon as I came to see if you were okay, it knocked me out too. I think it's some kind of stamina-damaging rune, designed to protect... Well, I don't know what it's protecting. There was some interesting gear in that chest over there, but nothing worth this kind of magic. I've never seen anything like this in Morrowind, I think this is older," she muses. Then she realizes how much she's talking, and about magic to a Nord! A Nord who hates magic and only resorts to it when his hands are quite literally behind his back. She quiets down immediately, berating herself. She has a reputation to uphold.

"What now?" he asks. "Is this it?"

"I found a tunnel when I woke up, but I didn't want to leave you behind," Istha says. Larjan turns to grin at her, and she's taken aback slightly. She's still not used to smiles sent her way.

"Of course not," Larjan says. "My handsomeness is irresistible. It was only a matter of time before you became hopelessly attached to me."

She shoves him and pretends his howling laughter doesn't make her crack a smile.

"Ridiculous," she says. "Come on, I want some fresh air."

As it turns out, the tunnel that leads sharply upwards and smells strongly of damp earth opens up to the world above. Istha breathes in deeply as they emerge into the night sky. She thinks they've only been inside the barrow one day, no more. Their muscles would have been sorer had they been unconscious for more than a few hours after the rune hit them.

"We're still closer to Riverwood than Whiterun," Larjan says. "Do you think it'd be worth it to head back, or keep going?"

Istha is unsure. She peeks over the edge of the cliff they have emerged out onto.

"Either way, we need to get down this slope," Istha says. She tightens the buckle on her pack and ignites a magelight in one of her hands to light the way. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Larjan cast an anxious look at the dusky sky above them. She hopes, the way he does, that no dragons will be flying about this late.

The cliff face would be treacherous enough to scale during the day time, but now it is even worse. The rocks are coated with the dew that drips off of the scraggly grass that pokes its way through the cracks, and Istha slips more than once. Usually she doesn't fall too far, but once she slides down so far that Larjan yells out in alarm and Istha reaches out blindly for something to hold onto. She comes to a stop against a boulder that juts out from the rest of the surface and it knocks all the air out of her lungs. She lies there for a moment, eyes screwed tightly in pain. She hears pebbles falling as Larjan scrambles down towards her.

"Istha," he says, reaching her and cupping her face with large hands. His touch is dirty and a little bit cold, because they've both been using their hands to help them climb down, but she appreciates it nonetheless. She murmurs a response and opens her eyes blearily. "Hold on, there's a potion in here somewhere."

"No, no," she says, trying to sit up and pressing her hands to her ribcage. The healing spell comes more slowly than usual, but she can breathe easier by the time Larjan pushes the tiny red bottle into her shaking hands. She complains weakly, but he doesn't rest until she's drunk half the bottle.

"Thanks," she says finally, and he kisses her forehead in response. It's a nice gesture, she thinks. They haven't mentioned the kiss at Helgen at all, but it comes back to mind as she watches him pack up again.

"No problem. That's what I'm here for," Larjan says, and they keep climbing, more carefully now. In the end, its the distant roar of a dragon to the east that makes them decide to continue on to Whiterun instead of returning to Riverwood. They travel without the use of Istha's magelight where they can, except when they nearly fall into rivers and badger dens and other small dangers. Eventually they find the path again, and the going is easier here. A pack of wolves attacks them not long after, but these are easily dispatched by their combined forces. Larjan wants to stop and skin the carcasses, but Istha points out that they need to get to Whiterun soon, and their furs are mangy and patched anyway.

Dawn is breaking by the time Whiterun's silhouette appears on the plains before them. Between them and their destination, a lumbering giant smashes its club on the ground. Istha thinks it has gone insane until they spot the figures darting about its legs. She is struck by the ridiculous mental image of mice playing with a dazed cat, and is so caught up in the absurdness of the situation that it takes her a moment to realize that Larjan is already sprinting towards the figures, blond hair flying behind him.

Istha swears, and pulls the bow out over her shoulder. She chooses one of the arrows she picked up in Bleak Falls Barrow, because it seems more finely crafted than the iron ones she picked up in Riverwood, and chases after her hare-brained companion.

The figures weaving around the giant have already worn it down by the time Istha is close enough that she can take a proper shot, and the two arrows she buries in the back of its neck are more of an annoyance to it. She watches the giant fall over from a hilltop and narrows her eyes suspiciously as the three warriors who had been fighting him approach Larjan. However, she relaxes when they sheathe their respective weapons, and from their arm gestures they seem to be thanking him. She walks towards them, her bow still out but her arms relaxed.

“We're part of the Companions,” one woman seems to be saying to Larjan. Her face is painted with diagonal green slashes and makes Istha a bit intimidated, but her manner is friendly. She hangs back, examining the other two 'Companions' who stand behind the first woman. They are quiet, but not hostile. “You should join us, if you want more adventure. We'll be in Jorrvaskar in Whiterun.”  
  
“I might take you up on that offer,” Larjan muses. He glances at Istha over his shoulder and reaches for her hand, pulling her closer. Istha frowns at him. “Though if you ask Istha, we've had our share of adventure in the last few days. Have you heard about Helgen yet?”

The young woman who stands behind the female archer gasps and bounds forward, her eyes wide with amazement. Istha rolls her eyes. Is it necessary for him to stop and tell everyone?

“You saw the dragon?” she cries aloud.

“Ria, control your enthusiasm,” the third Companion chides in a gravely voice.

“Larjan,” Istha says flatly. “We have a task to attend to.”

“Yes, we do. We'll be on our way now. It was nice to meet you, Aela,” Larjan says. The goodbyes prove pointless, because the Companions return to Whiterun with them. Larjan provides an exciting recount of the last few days to an adoring Ria, while Istha trails behind with the scratchy-voiced man. He doesn't try to talk to her beyond introducing himself as Farkas and for this she is grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have written this for NaNoWriMo. I have just under 15k written already, and I only started putting this together about... a week ago. Enjoy the regular updates while they last.


	7. LI - Dragons Rising

After so many hours spent only with Istha's grumpy company to pass the time, Larjan is glad to have more people to talk to. He has nothing against his Dark Elf travelling companion, of course, but he was never one to find long silences comfortable.

He feels guilty once they reach the city gates and he looks back only to see Istha lagging far behind, with the tall Nord that Aela and Ria call Farkas. He hadn't meant to leave her behind, but at least she doesn't look too upset.

The city gates are closed, and Larjan is surprised. The Companions are waved through instantly, but the guard seems reluctant to let him and Istha in until he explains that he has a message from Riverwood and Aela vouches for their honesty.

Once in Whiterun, Larjan is struck by the familiarity of it all. He's only visited Whiterun a few times before he'd ventured off to Cyrodiil, but his memories of the town are coloured with warmth. The blacksmith hammering away at her anvil stops for a moment and straightens her back as she gives the newcomers a cursory glance, and in the marketplace Larjan has to stop and look at everything. Istha drags him off eventually, but not before he stops for a moment to lay his hand upon the Shrine of Talos.

Dragonsreach is perched above the rest of the sprawling city, and Larjan sees it as bigger than he remembers. His childish excitement is muted once they open the heavy wooden doors and step inside. The hall is darkened by the lack of windows but the fire in the centre of the two long dining tables burns brightly. Larjan's stomach grumbles as he and Istha walk past the feast laid out on the tables, but he reminds himself that there will be time to eat after they deliver the message.

The Jarl of Whiterun makes no move to correct his horrible posture as they approach, and Larjan thinks to himself that once you have a certain amount of power, it doesn't really matter how you act. A tall, proud Dunmer woman leaves the ranks of a small group of people conferring in front of the Jarl, and halts them to ask their business.

“We come with a message for Jarl Balgruuf," Larjan says quietly. "It's about Helgen."

"...I suppose that would be worth interrupting the meeting for," Irileth says eventually, and steps aside to let them pass. Conversation stills as Larjan approaches the man slouching on the throne and bows his head. Istha stays stubbornly upright, and Larjan tries not to show his irritation at her blatant lack of respect.

"Good morning, Jarl Balgruuf," he says. "We bear a message from Gerdur of Riverwood, who runs the lumber mill, as payment for the hospitality she showed my companion and I after we escaped the wreckage of Helgen. She asks for you to send a few soldiers their way in case a dragon attacks."  
  
Gasps and anxious murmurs follow.

"You have come from Helgen?" the Jarl asks us, concern evident in his eyes as he sits up and looks them over. Larjan is painfully aware of the fact that he and Istha are still dirty and tired from their journey (and the detour through the barrow) and makes a mental note to ensure that he is more presentable the next time he meets a Jarl, if he ever has the opportunity.  
  
"Yes. We were present when the dragon attacked. I don't recommend the experience," Istha says, speaking for the first time since they've entered Whiterun. The court seems bewildered.  
  
"We will send a troop to Riverwood at once," the Jarl states after a moment of thoughtful deliberation. "Thank you, travellers. You have done a great service, and I will make sure you are rewarded for it. In the meantime, if you fancy an adventure... Would you speak to my court wizard, Farengar? I think he was looking for someone to run an errand for him..."  
  
Larjan's first priority at the moment is to get a warm meal in his stomach, and some mead, and then to sleep the rest of the day in an actual bed and set off for his childhood home tomorrow morning. But Istha perks up at the sound of a 'wizard', and he follows her to a room off to the side where a hooded man stands by an arcane enchanter. A shrouded woman exits the room and brushes past Larjan, her steps quick and silent. He watches her back with a raised eyebrow before returning his attention to Istha.

"You're the court wizard?" Istha asks. The man nods, and introduces himself as Farengar of Secret-Fire. He seems distracted and not incredibly interested in his new guests, until Istha brings up dragons, and he starts prattling on about burial sites and stones with all sorts of words that hurt Larjan's head. He listens closer when he hears Bleak Falls Barrow mentioned.  
  
"But we've just come from there," Larjan says.

"Did you happen to find the Dragonstone, perhaps?" Farengar asks hopefully, leaning forward. Larjan shakes his head just as Istha frowns and drops her pack on the table with a thud. The two Nord men watch as she starts to pull various objects out of it, including but not limited to various gems, iron ingots, daggers, potions, and finally, a small stone tablet.  
  
Farengar takes it eagerly and lets out a cry of delight, while Larjan cannot pull his eyes away from the sheer amount of junk she has pulled out from her pack.

"Where'd you get all those?" he asks, pointing at the ingots. He tries to rack his brain for a location in Bleak Falls where she might have found them, but doesn't remember.  
  
"Never mind those," Istha says briskly, and starts putting everything back. He doesn't understand how those slight shoulders can bear that much weight, and offers to take some of it. Istha slaps his outstretched hand away, and they are about to start bickering again when they hear a yell come from the main hall. Larjan pokes his head out, only to see a Whiterun guard collapsed at the Jarl's feet, stumbling over his words as he tries to tell a story through pained gasps.  
  
"Easy there, breathe soldier," Irileth murmurs, her gray hand rubbing between the man's mail-clad shoulderblades.  
  
"A dragon," the guard gasps. "Huge. Western watchtower. Quick!"  
  
The hall erupts into a frenzy of motion. Irileth runs towards the doorway where Larjan and Istha stand. He's not sure exactly what happens, but in the chaos, he and Istha are roped into joining the guards on their mission to kill the dragon. The memory of Helgen is still fresh in his mind, but he remembers the charred bodies and the horrified screams that would cut off so suddenly, and he knows he cannot condemn the people of Whiterun to such a fate.

"Come on Istha," he says, and is taken aback but pleased when he sees the steady determination in her elegant features.  
  
"I've got a score to settle with that entire race of damned flying lizards," she says, and they follow Irileth out of Dragonsreach. There is shouting in the streets, and people press themselves to the walls as a troop of guards makes its way out, but Larjan hardly hears any of this. Adrenaline gives air to his steps, and they have reached the decimated watchtower before they know it.  
  
For a second, Larjan looks around bewilderedly and thinks they have been duped. There is no dragon to be seen. But the smoldering ruins of the tower say otherwise, as does the guard slumped over a bush like a ragdoll torn apart by a child who doesn't know its strength. And then he hears the roar, and hefts the two-handed sword he took from a draugr in Bleak Falls Barrow. He breathes in, and out, the way his father taught him before putting a dagger in his hand for the first time and sending him out to fight a sabre cat. He still has the scars, but more importantly, the lesson.

He's not going to die today, or tomorrow. But that dragon will.

 

..................................................................................................................................

 

Her tongue is heavy in her mouth with the weight of ash and every ragged breath pulls smoke down her throat and into her lungs and it feels like her insides are being scratched but being hyperaware of everything going on around her is less of a painful experience, and more of an exhilarating one. It's as though her entire life up until now has been nothing but an introduction, leading to this point in the universe.

When the dragon crashes to the ground and grabs a guard with its snapping jaws and then doesn't seem to have the energy to get up, she lets out a joyful noise that can only be a war cry. Larjan raises his sword in salute, and charges the grounded dragon straight on. He's lost his helmet in the fray, somehow, and she thinks for a moment that he looks absolutely beautiful but there's no time to stop to admire her blond companion, they have a monster to conquer. Arrow after arrow, she aims for the gashes in the dragon's left side where Larjan's first few swordstrokes have torn the creature's scales and muscles, until it almost resembles a tailor's pincushion.

The dragon rears up on its back two legs and lets out a furious roar and a stream of fire that Irileth and the remaining two guards barely have time to avoid, and when Istha can no longer get a clear shot she throws down her bow and draws out the energy pooling deep in her gut, focusing on healing her teammates from above while they finish off the dragon. Even though its death can't be far off with the kinds of injuries it has, Istha is surprised when the killing blow comes. Larjan appears out of nowhere, plunging his greatsword through the creature's skull and pining it to the charred earth below even as it lets out its last fiery breath.

Every scrap of power she has left goes into streaming her own magical energy into Larjan, and somehow the Nord man is still standing, leaning onto the dragon's head, but there is an energy surrounding him that is far more powerful and ancient than hers and her magic sputters out pathetically. She falls helplessly against the tower parapets, her eyes wide as Mirmulnir goes up in flames and her companion is embraced by a stream of harsh white light.

Istha hears screaming, it takes her a moment to realize it is hers. The dragon is defeated, dead at their hands, and yet she feels like she has lost, like she has been cheated out of something precious that is hers and hers alone. Gone is the inexplicable joy she felt at the fight. In its place is a violent anger, and her arrow is ready and the bow is pulled taut but she is shaking so much that she can't keep her target lined up. He's still standing in front of the dragon but the tip of her arrow just won't stay pointed in the right direction.

"It's over, Elf. We've killed it."

Istha jumps as the other archer touches her elbow gently and smiles exhaustedly at her from under his Whiterun guard's helmet. "You can put the bow down. It's done. Your friend, he killed it!"

She hears the guard's words and knows he is right and part of her wonders how the bow even got in her hands because she threw it aside to heal her teammates, didn't she? She is not sure anymore but lets her arm drop and follows the guard down the partially destroyed stairs, where Larjan is standing with his face to the heavens and Irileth looks mutinous at the words that are coming out of the guards' mouths.

"Dragonborn," they are whispering. Istha shudders at the word. Larjan looks at her, straight at her face and she doubles over and retches in a nearby bush. Her quiver falls off her shoulder and the remaining arrows spill all over the ground, the archer guard has his hand between her shoulderblades and Larjan is kneeling at her side and everyone is talking, there is so much noise! But all she can focus on is the voice in her head telling her that Larjan is the enemy. Larjan, sweet Larjan who trusts her to guard his back and takes first watch when they go to sleep somewhere that isn't safe and kissed her forehead when she broke her ribs falling from Bleak Falls Barrow. Larjan can't be the enemy, and yet she doesn't trust herself to look up and meet his concerned gaze.

"No stomach for combat, poor thing," she hears Irileth say. The other guards help pick up her arrows but when the quiver is offered to her she almost pushes it aside. She is pulled to her feet and Larjan supports her with an arm around her waist and she closes her eye, painfully aware of the dagger at her hip and how easy it would be to slip it into her palm and slit his throat. She cannot. She is going crazy, there is no other explanation.

"Where are you hurt?" He asks, and his fingers glow gold with the basic healing spell she taught him as he scans her body. She shakes her head, unable to say.

They walk back to Whiterun slowly, while she leans into Larjan and tries not to vomit again and the other guards recount everything they know about the mythical Dragonborn, a mortal hero with the body of a man and the soul of a dragon. They tell Larjan to shout as dragons do, and he is hesitant at first but they press until he opens his mouth and the words burned into their minds in Bleak Fallows Barrow come out. Istha hears them and wants to shout back, wants to tear Larjan apart limb from limb. Minutes later, the earth shakes and the world cowers around them as a thundering call echoes from an ominous mountain peak in the distance.

"The Graybeards!"

"They're calling you, Dovahkiin!"

She wants to die. She doesn't know how they get back to Whiterun, it's possible that she passes out. When she is conscious again, she is already laid out in a bed in the local inn, stripped of her armour and her braids and left with loose clothing and hair. Larjan sits in a chair at the foot of the bed, trying to bind the puncture marks in his side caused by the dragon's snapping jaws. Istha sits up, her eyes already assessing the damage. There is a shiny burn on his right arm, as well, where his shoulder pads and his gauntlets didn't quite meet.

"Stop that," she says, and crawls down the mattress towards him.

"You're awake," he says as she undos his lopsided bandages and readies a healing spell. "You should be resting."

"I'm not injured," Istha says, her palms hovering over his abdomen. She concentrates on knitting his torn flesh back together.

"I wondered about that," Larjan says. "I couldn't find anything wrong on you, but you passed out after the Graybeards summoned me and nothing would wake you."

"The Graybeards, aye?" Istha says as she pulls a handful of wheat and some crushed mountain flowers out of her pack and presses the resulting pulp to Larjan's burn. He yelps and jumps away, returning only after she gives him a glare. His chest and back are both covered in scars, but most look old and healed so she pays them no attention.

"They want me to go to High Hrothgar," Larjan says.

"I'm coming," Istha says immediately.

"Of course," Larjan answers. He barely stops to think, and an invisible knife twists in Istha's gut at the sight of his serene face.

"You need to heal, first," Istha says softly, and eventually she coaxes him into lying down on the bed and sleeping. She cannot bring herself to lie in the same bed as him, not when she could roll over and strangle him, so she busies herself polishing his sword the way she used to polish those of her father and brothers, before the Event.

The blade is in surprisingly good condition considering it spent a few centuries underground in the hands of a walking skeleton, and was thrust through a dragon's head just a few hours ago. She places it on the windowsill when she is done and stares out the window, lost in thought, until Larjan wakes up again and suggests they get something to eat downstairs. She follows mutely, too focused on her worry to notice whatever it is she chews and swallows.

Everything still tastes like dragon ash anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, the chapter title isn't a typo.
> 
> Also, this is technically two chapters stuck together. I've decided my previous ones were too short, so I'm trying to make them longer. We're nearing the exciting stuff.


	8. LI - The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tour guide voice*
> 
> "And to your right you can see blatant disregard for canon dialogue because internet user lemmaline can't find a goddamn script anywhere on this useless world wide web and therefore is pulling NPC interaction out of thin air because she can."
> 
> *end tour guide voice*

Larjan spends that night and most of the next morning sleeping. His side feels cold without Istha's presence and he wakes constantly from fitful sleep, chased from the land of the dreaming by bandits wielding ancient Nord weapons and a monstrous black dragon that goads them toward Larjan with roars and ebony claws. One time when he wakes, he finds Istha lying against him with her head on his chest, and after that he relaxes and doesn't wake quite so much. When he does, he only has to brush a hand over her silky hair before it calms him. It is a cycle he repeats many times before the knock on the door comes.

He slips out of bed and opens it. The knocker is a pretty young Nord woman who blushes and seems to forget what she came for when she sees the parts of Larjan's bare chest where the bandages don't cover him, and he apologizes profusely when he realizes his state of undress. As he pulls a plain blue tunic over his head, she introduces herself as Lydia, and she's here to summon him to Dragonsreach.

“Thank you for the message,” he says, but she remains in the doorway, watching him with dark brown eyes as he wonders whether or not to wake Istha. Lydia averts her eyes as the dark elf crawls out from under the covers and dresses in her oversized mage robes. Larjan wonders if Lydia thinks the two of them are lovers, and decides that she probably does. It's hard to explain to her why they share a bed without bringing up the nightmares and their trials, so he doesn't.

Even with Lydia leading them through the streets on the shortest path to Dragonsreach, the trip takes a long time. Word has already spread not just of the two mysterious strangers who survived Helgen, but also of the dragon-killing just outside Whiterun and Larjan's supposed new identity as Dragonborn. He's not sure how to feel about the people who mill around him, many reaching out to brush a hand along his shoulders as though to take part in his luck and glory.

It's not that Larjan doesn't like attention. He does. But he likes it on his own terms, and he finds the townspeople overwhelming. He's still not sure what this Dragonborn business means. Istha tucks her hand inside the crook of his arm - a rare display of contact from her – and glares. This, along with Lydia yelling about an important meeting with the Jarl, eventually clears a path through what seems like Whiterun's entire population.

Larjan expects him and Istha to receive some kind of praise or gold for killing Milmurnir the day before, but certainly not being made Thane by the Jarl. He doesn't answer at first when Balgruuf announces his new title, still stunned into a still quietness.

"What?" Larjan says. "You're making me Thane?"

The Jarl answers affirmatively.

"Don't you... already have one?" Larjan asks. Balgruuf the Greater looks incredibly uncomfortable.  
  
"Well we did, you see, but there was an incident with an over-sized skeever and three red apples..." he trails off, shifting his weight on the throne and leaning on the other elbow.  
  
"Seems like it's awfully easy to become Thane in Skyrim," Istha says, looking at the Jarl with something in-between suspicion and boredom. She's been acting strange all morning, Larjan muses.

"We are confident in the Dragonborn's abilities to protect our citizens," Balgruuf says, and Istha snorts and leaves, her feet making no sound as she walks towards the huge doors at the front of the hall.  
  
"I would be honoured to accept the title," Larjan chooses his words carefully, hoping he doesn't offend. "But I have to warn you that Istha and I will only be around for another day or two. We've been summoned to High Hrothgar, and I don't know when we'll return to Whiterun. Wouldn't it be better to choose someone more... present?"  
  
The Jarl waves his concerns away and before Larjan can protest further a servant comes forward and grants him what Balgruuf calls the Axe of Whiterun. Larjan holds it up to his face to get a better look, and icicles form as he breathes out. He yelps and nearly drops it. An ice enchantment, he realises too late.

Istha and Lydia wait for him just outside of Dragonsreach. They were talking before, but the conversation drops abruptly when they catch sight of him. Lydia bows her head as he approaches, and he wonders how she's heard so quickly, and how he can stop the rest of the citizens from following her example.

"Good morning, my Thane. The Jarl has appointed me to be your housecarl," she says. Larjan blinks.  
  
"I don't have a house," he says. Istha turns away and covers her mouth as though to muffle laughter.  
  
"No matter. Breezehome is available for you, should you want it. Until then, I am your sword and shield," Lydia says. She certainly looks dressed for the job in a set of new steel armour. Larjan's eyes involuntarily search the surface of the metal for dents or scratches. There are none. He hopes her training compensates for her lack of experience.

"We're going to High Hrothgar tomorrow," Larjan says. "Uh... You're welcome to join us..."  
  
Lydia's eyes light up with excitement, though she seems to do her best to control the enthusiasm in her voice as she says she would, of course.  
  
"I'm going to find more supplies," Istha says suddenly, and walks right back into Dragonsreach. Seeing Larjan's confused face, Lydia quickly explains.  
  
"She's probably gone to see Farengar, the court wizard. Seemed like the mage type to me," she says, shuddering at the thought of magic. Larjan would have agreed wholeheartedly with her a few months ago, but he kind of likes the healing spells that Istha sends his way occasionally. He asks Lydia to show him around the city he's so suddenly been appointed Thane of, and to his relief not much has changed since his last visits. The guards still complain, the marketplace vendors still yell out their prices and children still stop him in the alleys and ask him to play with them.  
  
Eventually he decides to make good on his promise to the Companions and visit Jorrvaskr. It's a funny-looking building that doesn't seem to fit in with the rest of Whiterun, but the people inside are friendly enough. He asks to join their ranks and next thing he knows he's getting the daylights knocked out of him by Farkas' grumpier twin. After Larjan barely manages to hold his own against him, he's sure he hasn't passed their test, but to his surprise Lydia and the onlookers cheer and congratulate him on his new status as "whelp."  
  
He spends the rest of that day training with various members of the Companions, though they are so eager to show their skills that sometimes they all try to correct his fighting stance at once, and his head spins when he tries to figure out who to listen to. He doesn't see Istha until dinner time, when he goes up to Dragonsreach and finds her pouring over dusty books and ancient scrolls with Farengar. Their heads are bent close together and when she gets up to leave, Farengar catches her by the wrist and tells her she should consider visiting the College of Winterhold if she's truly serious about her magic.

Larjan tries to keep his face blank when she gives the hooded Nord a thoughtful look in return and promises to consider it, but inside he worries. Istha is the only person here who has known him, however briefly, before the business with dragons and Graybeards suddenly made everyone want to be his friend. He doesn't want her to leave him.  
  
"Are you still going to come to High Hrothgar with me?" he asks as they walk back to the inn. She is silent for such a long time that he is certain she will say their time travelling together has come to an end already. Eventually, as they step into the pool of light coming from the inn's porch lanterns, she gives him a quiet yes.

"I'm glad," he says, and he really means it. They eat dinner with Lydia; salmon steak and baked potatoes. The salmon is burnt on one side and the potatoes could do with more spice but the meal is still delicious. Three years of mine rations have really lowered his tastebuds' standards. They stick around for a while after to listen to Mikael the Bard - _does he know he's horrendous?_   - and he and Lydia enjoy a bit of ale. Istha asks the innkeeper if she has any sujama, and spends a quarter of an hour sulking when no one appears to understand what it is she wants.  
  
Lydia departs for Dragonsreach for the night, so he and Istha retreat upstairs to their room. There are preparations to be made before bed, so even though they are both exhausted and slightly tipsy they pull everything out of their packs and lay it out; figuring out what gear they will take tomorrow, what they will try to sell or leave behind, and what they still need to pick up from Adrienne. They split their potions and provisions, and Larjan runs out of patience when he tries to convince Istha to try on a set of leather armour he commissioned from Adrienne, because he hates seeing his tiny companion run around in nothing but an oversized mage robe to protect herself. She relents at last, but only as long as she has time to take it up to Dragonsreach in the morning and enchant it.

Eventually everything is repacked and laid out for tomorrow, and they crawl into bed. Larjan is so exhausted that he falls asleep immediately, but scarcely an hour later the nightmares rouse him again. He bolts upright in bed, breathing heavily. Istha stirs, and he almost apologizes for waking her until he realizes her eyes are already alert and focused. He's not the only one having trouble sleeping.

"Nightmares?" she asks softly. He nods, and cannot look at her.  
  
"Me too," she says, and leans her head on his knee. They are quiet for a long time. Larjan speaks first, because he senses that Istha is waiting for him.  
  
"Skyrim is a harsh land. You kill, or be killed. There isn't anyone around who hasn't learned that lesson at one point or another. But I keep thinking about the soldiers at Helgen, and the bandits in Bleak Falls. The guilt won't go away, Istha. I... I think the mines made me soft. Three years of killing nothing but rotten skeevers, and now I'm back in my homeland and I'm too soft to handle it," he whispers heartbrokenly. Istha raises her head to look at him, and reaches for his hand. She traces his knuckles with slender, skeletal fingers, and uncurls his fingers to reveal his worn palm.  
  
"When I look at these hands, Larjan, I do not see 'soft' or 'spoiled' written anywhere into them. See these callusses? These scars? These are working hands, used to a difficult life. There is nothing soft about them," she murmurs. He stares at his hands, at her bony fingers clutching loosely at his wrists. After a moment he lies back down, and the silence is broken only by their slow breathing and the occasional drunken yell from the tavern below.

"I'm still soft. Still guilty. Those men and women wouldn't have hesitated to drive swords through our guts but I can't get their faces out of my heads," he says. She props herself up on an elbow to look at him.  
  
"You're human," she says simply. He laughs bitterly, and turns his head towards her silhouette.  
  
"What are you, then? Don't tell me Dark Elves don't regret anything."  
  
"Jaded," she says. Her eyes blink, and their room is dark but he can still see the shadows of her eyelashes, and it strikes him how absurdly long they are. She leans over him, long hair spilling over her shoulder and onto his bandaged chest. He resists the urge to laugh at the way the ends tickle his skin because her eyes are serious, and it isn't until she bends her head that he understands the quiet sadness behind them.  
  
She kisses him, and he kisses back slowly as though he is afraid to scare her off with too much movement. She tastes a bit like the ale they drank earlier, but not overwhelmingly so. She doesn't feel like a Nord woman - she is sharp angles and harsh edges where he is used to inviting curves - nor does he try to pretend she is. She is Istha. Or at least, that is the name he knows her by, and that is enough for him.

She falls asleep on his chest, and though her weight is unfamiliar he finds it comforting. Larjan thinks momentarily of his mother, wonders if when they meet tomorrow she will see Istha with the same prejudices he saw her with at first. He pets her silky hair and she nuzzles closer, and so he pushes those thoughts away and drifts off for the second time that night.

This time, the nightmares stay away and let him slumber until morning.

 

.....................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

They leave Whiterun at dawn.

There are a few minor loose ends to tie up, things like retrieving Larjan's repaired armour from Warmaiden's, a few minor enchantments to cast using Farengar's arcane enchanter, and finding Lydia without waking up the rest of Dragonsreach, but eventually they manage to gather themselves. Larjan waves goodbye at the guards who open the gates for them. Istha makes no such gestures.

It's not that she resents Larjan's new status as Thane. She doesn't. But she resents the way eyes pass over her as though the gray tinge of her skin makes her part of the background. Her patience is far shorter than usual due to the voices occupying her head.

If they were constant, she might be able to drown them out, but they rise and fade like mental ocean tides, and she has to remind herself not to stop in the street and shake her head to try to make them fall out of her ears. She will not let the world think she is crazy. Even if she does.

Larjan and Lydia walk ahead as Istha falls behind, and she tries to blame her slower pace on the dread she feels at going to High Hrothgar. In truth, she is exhausted. She barely slept last night, and though she lets Larjan believe she is plagued by the same moral conundrums that he is, it was only the voices that kept her awake. And then to make matters worse, when she woke she had found herself sprawled on Larjan in a manner so disgustingly affectionate that she spent the rest of the wee hours of the morning pacing the room until he woke up as well. He had bounded about the room gathering their possessions and sending her happy smiles while she rubbed at her temples and muttered an excuse about a headache, and tried not to think about the fact she'd kissed him the night before. Behaviour of that sort is unacceptable for someone of her upbringing, and though she left her childhood behind when she fled Morrowind, the mindset remains. That ale went to her head more than she let on.

Now it seems that the adventure ahead of them has captured his attention, and she is grateful for the distraction. The sun's first peek above the horizon warms her bare arms, and there is a breeze coming from the East that tastes fresh and clean. She wonders if she goes East enough if she will be able to feel the same wind that her family in Morrowind feels, and then has to remind herself that she has no family. She never did, even if the tightness in her chest says otherwise.

Lydia is gesturing wildly up ahead, her arms sweeping across the span of the mountains on either side of the road. Istha pricks her ears forward and hears something about a Ritual Stone, then bandits. She doesn't really catch onto what is going on until the road starts sloping downhill, towards two towers on either side of the river and a bridge that closes the gap between them. When they draw closer, a woman in torn and dirty leather armour steps out of the first tower, and plants herself firmly in the middle of the road, her arms crossed defiantly. Istha senses a fight, and slips the bow off her shoulders.

Larjan and Lydia are smart enough, thankfully, to approach the woman cautiously. Istha is still quite a ways behind them and doesn't hear the argument that passes between them, but she does see the bandit woman's hand go for the axe at her hip, and she lets an arrow go flying before the axe starts its downward swing towards Larjan. The arrow embeds itself in the bandit's neck, but Istha does not have time to enjoy her victory because there are shouts coming from the towers above them, and next thing she knows an arrow has buried itself in her thigh, piercing the leather to her skin.

Istha kneels and tries not to scream. As an archer, she doesn't usually get injured in combat. The burning pain in her leg is a new experience and not one she thinks she likes. Gritting her teeth through the pain, she grabs a new arrow and squints at the bridge, where a small figure has a long bow drawn in her direction. Istha counts - one two three - and releases her fingers. The bandit on the bridge doubles over, but it takes Istha another two shots to kill. She watches the body topple over the side of the bridge and fall into the waters below with grim satisfaction.

Larjan and his new little housecarl have disappeared into the tower, so Istha puts her faith in her companions' fighting ability as she drags herself behind a small rock outcropping and takes a closer look at her arrow wound. The arrowhead has gone clean through her leg and she wants to vomit. She pulls a healing potion out of her pack and sets it on the rock beside her. She scrunches up her nose and snaps the arrow off behind the head, close to her leg. The vibration sends shoots of pain up her leg, and it is only stubbornness that keeps her hands moving to pull the rest of the shaft out of her flesh. She downs the potion before she has time to faint, and watches the muscle in her thigh knit itself back together with a little help from a healing spell. It still throbs slightly when she stands up, but it will have to do.

Istha runs up the first tower, her eyes searching for familiar blond hair. None of the bodies slumped on the staircase are Larjan or Lydia, and she is relieved when she spots them at the other end of the bridge. Her worry returns as she jogs closer, however. Lydia is slumped against the wall, bleeding freely from her head. Larjan is trying to pour a potion down her throat but she is unresponsive and clammy from the blood loss. Istha kneels and heals the brunette as best as she can. Larjan lets out a sigh of relief when a bit of colour returns to her cheeks.

"A healing spell? Are you a priest?" Lydia murmurs, looking up at Istha with wonder in her eyes.  
  
"If that's what you want to believe," Istha says, standing and walking back along the bridge until she finds the crumpled body of a bandit chief. She tugs the horned helmet off his head and returns to her companions. Lydia's fumbling fingers barely manage to catch the helmet as Istha tosses it over. "Here. I don't know why you weren't wearing the helmet in the first place if you're going to run into things head-first like that."  
  
"I look ridiculous," Lydia mutters as she pulls it on and pokes the horns on the sides of her head experimentally.  
  
"Me too," Larjan says, pointing at his own helmet and grinning. "Ready to go, Istha?"  
  
"Just a minute," she says, and returns to a chest she saw under the staircase when she entered the tower. She shoves a dead bandit aside and examines the trap attached to the chest's lock. Two locks. Difficult, but not impossible. She slips a lockpick out of her boot and fiddles with the trap first. She has it disabled within a minute, and then gets to work on the chest itself. Her patience is rewarded – there is a steel dagger inside that she slips into her belt, as well as two potions and a coin purse.

Larjan and Lydia wait for her on the other side of the river.

“My mother's hut is just a bit higher,” Larjan tells them as they pick a path up the rocky terrain. “I know we can't keep the Graybeards waiting, but I want to let her know I'm still alive at least. She'll be glad to have visitors, she always is. But please, say nothing of my being made Dragonborn or Thane. She'll fall down dead at the surprise.”

Istha isn't sure what she expects, but it is not the round, rosy-cheeked woman that leaves her vegetable patch and runs toward them as they approach.

“Larjan!” she yells, one hand hitching up the apron on her dress and the other thrown open to embrace her son. Istha hangs back with Lydia as Larjan picks his hefty mother up and spins her around once before setting her back down.

“Four years!” his mother shouts, pulling away and shaking a finger violently. “You haven't been home in four years and I haven't gotten a single letter in three!”

Larjan looks pained.

“Mama, I was in Cyrodiil. You know how it is,” he says, and Istha wonders if he's trying to avoid explaining the circumstances that got him arrested and thrown into the mines to begin with.

“Your punishment is chopping some firewood. Off you go, quick now. We need a good fire if you expect me to give your lovely lady companions a proper lunch,” she says, her tone turning warmer all of a sudden. Lydia giggles at the unamused look on Larjan's face, and Istha merely smirks as he wearily drops his pack on a nearby stump and walks off in search of an axe.

She and Lydia aren't completely excused from work, however. Larjan's mother – Kirstte, she says her name is – assigns her to cut tomatoes into tiny slices, and Lydia to do the same to potatoes. The work is unexpectedly relaxing, and Istha lets her guard down as Kirstte hurries around her small hut, pulling spices off the walls and throwing everything into a pot that hangs by the fire. She tells them little stories of her family as she goes, and Istha wonders where Larjan's four siblings have gone.

Larjan himself appears a few minutes later with a handful of logs, and then has to deal with his mother fussing about the “unmanageable” length he has let his hair grow to. Istha rather likes it, but makes no comment. When Kirstte isn't looking, she pulls out the leather strip she used to tie up her mage robe and hands it to Larjan, who pulls a few sections of his hair into a loose ponytail and grins at her in thanks.

The meal is surprisingly homely, and though Istha feels a little bit overwhelmed by the bustling Nord woman and the non-stop banter that passes between her and her newly-returned son. Eventually Larjan insists that they have to depart for important business, and they clean up. Kirstte pulls Istha into a surprise hug right before they leave, and Istha is so shocked that she almost forgets to put her arms around the round woman in return.

“You take care of my boy, you hear me, child? He likes you, so that's good enough for me. Next time you come by, you'll have to tell me how you came to be companions,” Kirstte says, her warm palms cupping Istha's painted cheeks. Istha smiles but she's so overwhelmed by the friendliness that she probably looks more like she's baring her teeth. Kirstte then turns to Larjan.

“Won't you say a few words to your father before you go?” she asks with a hopeful look, and Larjan's face immediately grows cold. Istha is shocked to see her normally even-headed friend stomp off towards the bandit tower they cleared an hour or two previously. Kirstte casts her eyes to the ground sadly, and Istha notices for the first time the pile of stones on a grassy alcove behind the house. A gold ring glints in the sun; an offering to the dead.

“I'll talk to him about it,” Istha promises, and they depart before more delays can present themselves. Kirstte waves them off with tears in her eyes, but Larjan trudges silently onwards. Istha knows better than to ask. Larjan doesn't muddle in her past, so she won't in his.

His quiet anger sets the tone for the rest of the journey to Ivarstead. Lydia hangs back with Istha this time, and they let Larjan trek ahead furiously. A pack of wolves dares to attack them along the way, and before his female companions can catch up he has already beheaded one of the poor animals in his fury. Lydia is troubled by his strange behaviour, but Istha ignores him. He will come around when he wants to.

They reach Ivarstead just before midnight. Lydia worries aloud that they might not find someone awake at the inn to provide them with food and board, but Istha only has to point out the hours that Whiterun follows to make her relax. They pay for two rooms, but Istha chooses to room with Lydia that night. It proves to be a stupid choice. Lydia snores.

Istha lies awake on her back, her hands folded perfectly on her stomach. The voices return with the surrounding silence. She's not quite sure what language they speak, but it reminds her of some of the words the horrid draugr in Bleak Falls said when they weren't just growling. Her mind whispers what she is refusing to believe – that she knows the Dragon language and just isn't letting herself speak it.

 _I can't_ , Istha tries to tell her restless mind. _Only the Dragonborn can speak the way dragons do_. But the carvings that seared themselves onto her eyelids in Bleak Falls don't go away no matter how many times she blinks, and in her mind's eye she can see the word _Fus_. It is so close that she can almost reach out and touch it, and she tries to do just that. Pain pricks at her temples, and the moment is lost. She realizes with embarrassment that she has been reaching for the slanted ceiling above her head, and pulls her hand back to her stomach.

The next morning, the voices are quiet, and she thinks that she might have just imagined them until the innkeeper mentions a haunted barrow just outside the town and a jolt of pain goes through her head again. Beside her, Larjan gasps, his hand pressed to his forehead. Their eyes meet, and linger, but neither of them ask the question on their minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I'm sorry I've stuck to the main plot so closely up until now. I promise that you only need to suffer through one more chapter before things start going... downhill. Or uphill. *cough Seven Thousand Steps cough* It really depends on how you see it.


	9. L - Seven Thousand Damned Steps

They waste an hour of the beautiful morning that greets them when they walk outside just trying to find a villager named Klimmek. Eventually they find him on the bridge, and he cheerfully agrees to let them take his job.  
  
"Anything we should watch out for?" Larjan asks as he accepts the sack of supplies from the Ivarstead resident. Klimmek tilts a thoughtful head at the mountain that looms over the town and shrugs.  
  
"Just a few wolves, mostly. I've never had too much trouble, and I'm just one townsman," he says. They find no reason to doubt his words, and start their trek up the mountain with sheathed weapons. Wolves are not a great danger. Larjan leads the party, his eagerness to reach High Hrothgar at last making him walk faster. The air grows colder the higher they climb, but the view is spectacular and worth the shortness of breath that comes with this many steps. When the troll lumbers out onto the path just before noon and growls, he freezes. 'Just a few wolves' does not equate to 'one very pissed off and very territorial troll' in his mind.

An arrow flies past his head and catches the troll in the forehead. The shot seems to anger the creature more than it bothers it, and Larjan realises the majority of the damage will have to be dealt by him and Lydia.

"Use fire!" he yells without looking back as he draws out his greatsword, and hopes Istha understands. She does. The troll is engulfed in flames and flails its arms about blindly, knocking Lydia to the side when she makes the mistake of thinking its blow will glance off her shield. It takes a continuous stream of fire and all of Larjan's weight put into his sword to finally bring the creature down.  
  
He pants when it falls onto its back, leaning on his bloodied sword for support.

"You okay, Lydia?" he asks. His housecarl gets to her feet, wincing.  
  
"I'll be sore for the next two days, but I think I'll live as long as a dragon doesn't drop out of the sky and decide to join in too," she says.  
  
They all laugh.

They're not laughing three hours, seven wolves, and four thousand steps later, when a dragon really does drop out of the sky. Larjan is tempted to lead his exhausted little party to safety in High Hrothgar, which is so close he can see the dark stone up the path, but when he remembers how easily the first one burst through Helgen's stone towers and turns to face it grimly.

The mountain side is not a good place to face down a dragon. There's no cover whatsoever, and it is only the weak wards that Istha throws up in the instant before it attacks that prevent them from turning into adventurer-cicles. He'd never really thought about the fact that dragons could breathe frost as well as fire, but it looks like he's getting firsthand experience now. The damned thing doesn't land until Istha and Lydia's combined archery efforts tear enough little holes in the membrane that stretches across its wings. It chooses higher ground, and the entire world seems to shake as its weight settles. Larjan runs forward with his greatsword, trying to get to its side, but it's smart enough to know what he's playing at and he finds it's snapping jaws ready for him wherever he tries to go. He gives up and starts parrying with its teeth, trying to keep its mouth distracted enough that it has no time to breathe frost at them.

The dragon grows increasingly more violent the more blood appears on its scaled muzzle. Larjan is quickly exhausted, and when the dragon rears up and Shouts directly at him - _Iiz Slen Nus!_  - he can do nothing to stop the ice that freezes his limbs and encases him. He hears Istha scream as though she is miles away, when actually she is rushing past his still form to fight the dragon up close. He wants to tell her to run, that she's not built for meelee combat, that she's going to die and they will get nowhere. But his lips are frozen shut, and he can only watch as she raises her hands and an inferno surrounds her and the furious dragon. It roars one last time, and Istha lowers her hands. But the fire doesn't stop even though it's no longer goaded on by her magic - he is entranced as the dragon's flesh starts disintegrating and floating up into the sky the way Milmurnir did, leaving only bones and the harsh white-blue light that streams... not into Larjan... but Istha.

 _Dovahkiin_ , his instincts tell him, and fury bubbles up in his gut. The Whiterun guards lied to him! There cannot be a Last Dragonborn, not when there are two. The only way to set things right, to bring truth to the equation once again would be to kill Istha where she kneels in front of the dragon, her face in her hands and her shoulders shaking. She's laughing at him, isn't she? Laughing despite the pain he knows she feels as her mortal soul fights for control over her body with the new _dovah_ soul - he knows because he fought it too. Pathetic. Look at her, she can't even stand anymore, can't raise a hand to defend herself as Lydia grabs her and spins her around, her sword clutched in her hand.

"You were the Dragonborn this entire time?" Lydia shouts, her face flushed with anger. "Why would you lie about that? What do you gain by deceiving the people of Whiterun?"  
  
"We did not lie," Istha says softly, and there are shiny wet streaks on her cheeks that glint when she raises her gaze to meet that of his housecarl. She laughed until she cried, didn't she? Larjan thinks, but already the fog of hatred is lifting and he is growing puzzled. He wishes the ice that is keeping him so still would melt already. "Larjan is Dragonborn."  
  
"But you just ate that soul!" Lydia shouts. "It didn't go into Larjan, it went into you."  
  
"It seems that I am Dragonborn as well," Istha whispers, and Larjan wonders why she does not sound as surprised as Lydia and him. She just sounds weary. She turns to look at Larjan. He sees trepidation in her eyes as she stands and summons two small flames in her hands. As anyone who has ever been encased in ice and then melted out of it will know, it is not a pleasant experience to go through. Larjan is weak and shivering when Istha's magic finally gets him out of enough of it that he can stand and walk. He falls to his knees almost instantly. It feels like there is still ice in his blood, and he wonders how long it will take before it thaws and he can think properly again.

"Graybeards," he manages to choke out as Istha and Lydia each take one of his arms and put it over their shoulders.  
  
"Almost there," Lydia says soothingly.  
  
In fact, there is a hooded figure already standing on the steps and waiting for them as they approach. Its face is cast into heavy shadows but Larjan can see a stern mouth and a thick blonde beard streaked with gray.

"We heard Shouting," the figure says, stepping forward to help ease Larjan's weight off the women.  
  
"Dragon attack," Istha says, tight-lipped. Larjan barely manages to keep awake as he is carried into High Hrothgar and laid on a bed by a fire. The shivering doesn't go away for several minutes, and he hates the way bad impressions are starting to become tradition for him. Four hooded figures watch impassively as he struggles to sit up.  
  
"Rest easy, Dovahkiin," the Graybeard says to Larjan, and he realises suddenly that this is an assumption on his part because neither Lydia nor Istha have called him that.  
  
"Istha," he says, teeth chattering, and the Elf appears at his side, her eyes worried but her manner withdrawn.  
  
"My name is Arngeir. Are you strong enough to listen?" the Graybeard says. Larjan glances again at Istha, who remains silent.  
  
"I have a question for you first, sir," Larjan says through chattering teeth.  
  
"Speak your mind, Dovahkiin."  
  
"Can there be two Dragonborns?" Larjan asks.  
  
"No," Arngeir says, looking rather taken aback that such a thing could even be considered. Larjan does not know what to say. "It has been foretold that the dragons will return to Skyrim with the arrival of the Last Dragonborn. There is no room in the legends for another one."  
  
"Master Arngeir, sir," Lydai says timidly, clearly intimidated by the presence of four powerful monks. "Couldn't there be the Last Dragonborn, and also the second-last?"

"Why do you ask such questions, children?" Arngeir says, his quiet voice growing minutely more impatient.  
  
"Istha and I," Larjan starts, and then a chill so terrible shakes his teeth that he cannot finish the sentence and looks to his Dark Elf companion to continue.  
  
"Larjan was the one you heard Shouting a few days ago," Istha says. "He dealt the final blow to Milmurnir and absorbed his soul, and we all thought he was Dragonborn. But I was the one who killed the frost dragon that attacked us just outside of High Hrothgar, and I absorbed that soul..."

The Graybeards look disturbed by this revelation. Larjan doesn't blame them. His head is still spinning, and he remains bothered by the strange bloodlust that overtook him when Istha stole the dragon soul.

"I hope you realize the consequences of lying to us, Elf," Arngeir says, and Larjan winces at the veiled hostility in his voice. His heart falls. There's no way Istha will react well to that. Won't the old monks even give them a chance?

"I speak the truth," Istha says stiffly. "You can choose to believe me or not, but don't blame me for something I don't understand any more than you do."

"Please-" Larjan starts to say before a violent bout of coughing shakes his shoulders and makes him fear his lungs are about to come out of his body. "Please," he says again when his throat no longer scratches. "She can Shout. That will prove it to you."

"The Graybeards can Shout. Does that make us Dovahkiin also?"  
  
"I don't think I'm welcome here," Istha says, and turns to leave. Larjan catches her bony wrist with his hand and doesn't let go, not even when he sees the flicker of pain cross her face when she tries to twist it away. He cannot let her go.  
  
"Test us," Larjan says. "Both of us."  
  
So they do.

  
  
...................................................................................................................................................................................

 

When Lydia asks him later how he learns the language of dragons, Larjan has trouble explaining. _It's not exactly learning_ , he tells her. _It's like remembering_. But remembering doesn't fit right either, not when the memories that come to mind when Larjan sees the words seared into the courtyard stone don't belong to him.

The dragon whose soul he took - or absorbed, or ate, depending on who you ask - was called Mirmulnir, once. _Allegiance Strong Hunt_. Larjan knows this because he saw the entirety of the ancient dragon's vast life in the mere seconds in between one _dovah's_ fall and another's rise. He saw Skyrim from the skies, from so high up that Whiterun seemed like a tiny toy he could crush between his jaws. He saw other dragons torn apart by his talons, gloated over their submission. Years later, when Larjan calls upon _Fus Roh Dah_ , he calls upon the part of him where Mirmulnir's soul rests. And when he does, he still sees these glimpses. His life and that of the dragons he slays are as separate as they are intertwined. The language needs prompting to come to him; each word needs to be found and bound to a soul so as to not overcome his human one. But once he has done that, the Shouts come as easily to him as breathing. Not quite learned, not quite remembered, but part of him all the same.

Arngeir tells them it took the Graybeards their entire lives to master the Thu'um as they know it now. Considering this piece of information, Larjan thinks that the astonishing speed with which both he and Istha learn the words of Whirlwind Sprint - _Wuld Nah Kest_ \- should mean something. And yet Arngeir remains displeased. They are led out to the courtyard, where the Graybeards gather around three closed gates. The task seems simple enough. The gates don't remain open long enough for someone to sprint their way through. But a Shout will do the trick. Larjan goes first. He passes through the gates so quickly that the resulting de-acceleration causes him to fall to his knees and close his eyes to stop the nausea that threatens his stomach. Istha passes in much the same way, though she manages to stay on her feet.

Larjan wraps a supportive arm around the shoulders of his rather green-looking companion, and turns to the watching Graybeards. He thinks they did well, but Arngeir remains unhappy.

"Well done, Dovahkiin," he says, but his gaze remains solely fixed on Larjan. Istha pulls away, throwing his arm off her shoulders violently.  
  
"You still won't accept me?" she demands. Her normally calm voice is minutely higher in pitch and strained with emotion. The Graybeards do not answer. Arngeir stares up towards the peak of the mountain, as though the swirling clouds above will grant him some kind of explanation for one more hero than he was taught to expect.

"Isn't there anything else we can do to prove ourselves? More trials?" Larjan pleads. He is desperate to mend the quickly growing tear between him and Istha. He cannot help his race, cannot help the fact that he was born in exactly the kind of mortal body that Nords have waited for all these years, and in the same way Istha cannot help that she is a Dunmer woman; a foreigner. They were made this way by Akatosh. Surely that means something.  
  
"There is something. Something only a Dragonborn could do. Retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller from the ruins of Ustengrav, and then we shall see how we proceed," Arngeir says finally. The fire in Istha's eyes is not yet quelled.  
  
"We can do that," Larjan says quickly, his hopeful eyes glancing from Istha's defiant figure to the four hooded monks. "We will do that."

Arngeir bows his head as Istha storms past him into High Hrothgar without saying a word. Larjan gives the older men all the apologies he has the words for, then follows her. He finds her on her way out the front door, with her pack slung over her shoulders and the fur hood drawn over her dark head.

"Wait!" Larjan says, pushing himself between her and the door. Up close, he's shocked by the flames that Istha summons in her right hand and the hard look on her face.  
  
"Let me through," she whispers, and Larjan shakes his head determinedly while he searches his mind for the right words to make her stay. They do not come nearly as easily as the Shouts do. He was not made for dealing with angry women.  
  
"Think this through," he pleads.  
  
"I will rethink when the Graybeards do, however I would not hold my breath. They have made their opinion of me quite clear. No doubt the isolation has addled their brains."  
  
"They just need some time to process this. Like we do. And we have so much to learn, you like that don't you? The Graybeards can teach us - aren't you curious at all?" he asks, holding his hands out in front of him both in a pleading gesture and to catch her if she tries to slip past him.  
  
"I want nothing to do with people who still look upon me with distrust when I've clearly already proven myself," Istha says, and it's a valid point. Larjan does not know what to say. He lets his hands drop to his sides as Istha spins around on her heel and turns the corner. He remembers too late that High Hrothgar has two doors.  
  
"Istha!" he shouts when he hears the creak of the other door, and wrenches the one behind him open. He stands in the doorway, not caring if he lets the icy wind into High Hrothgar - let the damned monks catch their last cold.  
  
But she does not turn. Does not make a single sign that she has heard him as she treks down the steps, her cloak leaving a soft trail in the snow. Larjan swears, calling her every vile name he knows as he ducks back into High Hrothgar.  
  
"Lydia!" he calls. "Istha's left, we have to go after her."  
  
He turns the corner into the room where the three travellers had left their equipment, and stops abruptly when he catches sight of Lydia. She smiles apologetically at him.

"I know," she says, gesturing to the ice that has frozen her boots to the stone floor. "I tried to stop her."  
  
It takes time for Larjan to muster the concentration needed to summon a flame to melt the ice, time that they don't have. Their belongings are quickly repacked, having been barely touched to begin with, but then he has to explain the situation to the Graybeards. He estimates that Istha has a fifteen, maybe twenty minute headstart on them, and she is not weighed down by metal armour the way he and Lydia are.

He isn't that worried at first because the imprints of her boots in the snow and the occasional burnt wolf carcass tell them they are on the right track, but the snowstorm hits out of the blue. Within minutes, the fur trim on Larjan's hood has frozen solid and he cannot tell which way is up in the swirling void of white. He and Lydia blunder forward blindly for a few moments, until Lydia gently tells him that they will be no good to Istha if they walk off the mountain and break their necks.

He can see a faint silhouette up ahead; one of the stone pillars that mark the path and this makes him want to argue. But Lydia is right. They unwrap Larjan's bedroll and huddle underneath the furs with their backs to the mountain. A few miserable hours pass. Larjan consoles himself with the fact that not even Istha is stubborn enough to try to keep travelling through this blizzard, but he still worries for the Elf. Her magic is strong, but she doesn't know how to control it yet. If she were to wander into the den of another troll, he's not sure she would escape alive. Skyrim is not a land anyone willingly walks alone in, and for good reason.

"She'll be fine," Lydia soothes, her gloved hand wrapping around Larjan's under the roll.  
  
"I promised I'd protect her," Larjan says quietly.  
  
He wonders about the agreement they made in Cyrodiil. She said she was running away and needed a guide to take her to Skyrim and protect her until she found her footing. She had told him she would provide 'an opportunity' for him to regain his freedom, and it wasn't until she'd set the Master's house on fire that he'd realized what that meant.

 _She was the one who left_ , he thinks. _She made the contract and she has the right to end it._ But his conscience will not let him rest. Larjan is not a man who finishes things halfway. He'll find Istha again, and he'll honour their agreement until she tells him with her own words that she no longer desires his protection.

He assures himself that they will find her in the morning.

 

..................................................................................................................................................................

 

They do not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. My hand slipped.  
> We're approaching the end of the canon storyline. Larjan and Istha are going their own paths for a while, but they'll still be influencing each other's actions indirectly. As always, if you want to make my day leave comments to let me know you're reading.


	10. I - Carried Along on the North Winds

There is one rule above all that Istha has been taught, one rule that her once-brothers had stressed the utmost importance of.

_Stay on the path._

She breaks it scarcely an hour after fleeing High Hrothgar. She's never seen snow like this, not with the speed with which it falls upon her and the weight it lays on her shoulders if she stops for even a moment to catch her breath. There'd been a little bit of snow on the way up to High Hrothgar, but it hadn't blocked out the sky. Disoriented by the lack of visible stars with which to navigate by, Istha quickly loses her way.

She keeps going forward as long as she can, holding her gloved hands out in front of her with a weak magelight cradled in her palms, but she's never been very good at Alteration spells, and trekking through knee-high snow exhausts her body almost as quickly as her magic. She stumbles upon a cave just when she thinks she can go no further. Her only bedmates are the bloody skeletons of pilgrims, some fresh enough to still have frozen bits of muscle and tendon clinging to them. Something glints off her magelight, and a little bit of digging in the back of the cave reveals a sizeable stash of gold and jewellery. Istha pockets it with a grim smile. Winterhold is a long way from here, and she has a feeling that if she wants to make it, she will have to pay a sellsword to defend her. This time, she won't be able to bribe them with a sweet promise of freedom. She'll have to pay her weight in gold.

After a few sleepless hours huddled in the back of the cave, hoping that the troll she and her ex-companions killed earlier didn't have a mate, the snow finally relents. She's out and on her feet without hesitation. She finds a smaller path once dawn finally lightens the horizon, and follows the zigzag down the side of the mountain. It's not the path she came up; this one is barely wide enough for one person, and meanders more than she deems necessary. A goat path, if she had to guess.

At last the ground starts levelling out and the layer of snow crunching under her feet is easier to walk in. She passes Ivarstead and is amused for a moment by how close she came to finding the right path. She considers stopping for supplies in the small town, but turns her sights North instead. She's dawdled too long. It's time to find her calling. Enough of this Nord business.

Her destination is the College of Winterhold, where she plans to shut herself in a library and read; either until she dies or a dragon knocks down the walls and burns her to a crisp. Whichever comes first.

Her travel is quiet, and relatively peaceful. She passes the occasional mill or farm, and keeps her distance from towers that look like prime retail for bandits. She eats lunch in a place called Dark Water Crossing by its inhabitants. The family that lives there lets her use their cooking spit and a few spices in exchange for one of the two rabbits she hunts on the way. A fair trade, all things considered. She devours her remaining rabbit hungrily, licks her fingers, and steals a few of the salted fish strips laid out to dry when they aren't looking. The children wave when she leaves. She does not wave back.

She reaches Windhelm several hours after the sky has already gone dark. It is snowing again, and all around her guards and townspeople hurrying back to the city gates bury their faces in warm furs and hunch their shoulders against the wind. Istha keeps her head high so her eyes can take in the castle as she approaches, and it is to her revealed face that the guards leer at when she asks to enter the city.

"Another Divines-damned refugee?" One of them groans as he reaches for the lever. Istha simply stares, not quite comprehending, and steps through the doors as they slowly creak open to admit her. The first thing she sees makes her blood boil.  
  
A Dunmer woman, her worn cloak ragged and patched, her face flushed with dark purple as she argues with two human men who tower over her.

"I bet Dark Elves are only so gray because they haven't washed since the eruption," one of the men sneers, and grabs at the woman's wrist. "We should call you Dirty Elves, eh?"  
  
"Stop it!" Istha says, storming forward and stinging the man's hand with her weak lightning spell. The cackle of electricity that raps across the man's knuckles and makes him let go of the Dunmer woman is hardly punishment enough for his actions, in Istha's opinion, but the Dunmer clearly thinks otherwise. The other woman makes a small whimpering sound and grabs Istha, hurrying her along into a shadowed alley.  
  
"Are you mad?" the woman hisses as the men's angered yells fade away.  
  
"Are you?" Istha counters, jerking her wrist away from the woman. "I just saved your skin from those bastards, the least you could do would be to thank me!"  
  
The Dunmer woman glares at Istha as they make their way down the alley and emerge onto another street. The buildings here are in worse condition and the streets are narrower and slanting. Istha catches a glimpse of crimson eyes peering suspiciously from between the rafters of a boarded-up window. The eyes disappear when she focuses on them.

"You're new to Windhelm, aren't you? Mind your ears. We wouldn't want the Stormcloaks cutting them off," she says bitterly, and Istha notes that there is a deep notch in the woman's left ear. "Come on, let's get you inside. The Gray Quarter is no place to be wandering around in at night. I have a spare bedroom for you. My name is Suvaris Atheron, _sera_. Yours?"  
  
"Istha. What was that you meant by Gray Quarter?" Istha asks. Suvaris only sighs as she opens the door to a house Istha presumes belongs to her. The other Dunmer woman scans the street nervously, and ushers her in.

“Windhelm is divided into 4 quarters. Where you live depends on what you are. The Gray Quarter... well, it's where we live. You can see the state of things around here.”

The Atheron residence is more spacious than the cramped exterior would suggest, but the room only has sparse furnishing. Suvaris heads straight for the firepit by a table that looks like it's about to fall over any minute now. Istha takes her pack off and leaves it by the door as the older woman pokes at the ashes and mutters a basic fire spell to get it started again. She steps back, satisfied, just as Istha is pulling off her boots.

“Oh no, keep those on. The floorboards have nails sticking out, as if mere splinters weren't bad enough. I've asked Faryl to hammer them down, but new ones appear every other day. Sit down at the table, I have some stew I can warm up.”

By unspoken agreement, Istha pays for her room and meal with a few gold coins and a wolf pelt. Suvaris pets the fur and smiles at Istha when its quality meets her standards.

“No holes; a clean kill. I'm guessing you're good with that bow of yours?”

“Thank you, _sera_. I do my best,” Istha says, but yes, she is good. She has been shooting as long as she can remember.

“Good. There are all sorts of animals in this region. Even snowy sabre cats if you head a bit North. If you plan on staying in Windhelm, it pays to have a skill like archery. The Nords can get away with not knowing anything, but we, we have to work to earn our right to live here,” Suvaris says.

“I don't plan on staying, but... There has to be something we can do about this,” Istha says, frowning. “This isn't fair.”

Suvaris only sighs as she spoons a watery fish soup into a wooden bowl and passes it to Istha. She takes it gratefully, even though the taste of fish is overpowering and it barely fills her stomach. Something tells her the soup is a luxury in this part of town, and, well... She's had worse meals since she fled Morrowind.

She and Suvaris talk late into the night. The Windhelm resident was born here; she has never seen their homeland and soon talk turns from the depressing topic of Windhelm to the slightly more cheerful one of Morrowind. Istha is still recounting all that she can of her youth to her attentive audience when the screaming starts. Suvaris grows grim, but none of the shock that Istha feels is visible on her face.

“What's going on?” Istha demands, standing and trying to peek through a dirty window. There is nothing to be seen – it is too dark outside, and no amount of scrubbing will remove the sootstains from the glass. Only a faint golden glow manages to make it through.

“You don't want to go out there,” Suvaris whispers. She stands and picks up the lone candle that lights the living room. Her long shadow flickers eerily on the shoddily-built wall behind her. “Come to bed. It gets chilly here, I'll pull out a few blankets for you.”

Istha ignores her, and steps outside. What she sees makes her scream.

 

........................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Her entire right side throbs insistently, demanding her attention and care. Istha's eyes flicker open and stare at the ceiling above her. There are gaping holes in the wood between her and the attic. She sits up gingerly, hissing in pain the entire way.

Suvaris appears at her side in an instant.

“Easy there, you were burnt pretty badly,” she says. Her ridged forehead is creased with worry as she pulls aside the blankets that cover Istha and examines her abdomen.

“That looks horrible,” Istha mutters. She has been stripped of her clothing except for her chest bindings in order to give a bit of air to the extensive burns that stretch across the entirety of her right side. The worst of it looks like it has been healed already, but her skin is still raw and flushed purple with blood.

“How does it feel?” Suvaris asks, her palms hovering over the injury. Istha relaxes as a warm healing glow streams from the woman's hands into her skin.

“Also horrible, but a little bit better now,” she says with a hiss.

“Good. Faryl and I used up most of our magic healing the others first, I hope you don't mind,” she says apologetically. Istha shakes her head, trying not to move her abdomen too much. A Dunmer man enters a few moments later, apparently unperturbed by Istha's near nakedness. He leans in the doorway, looking deeply unhappy.

“Faryl?” Suvaris asks, looking at him over her shoulder.

“The Jarl wouldn't grant us an audience. Guards said to come back after breakfast,” he says, his voice tight with anger.

“I'm going to give that bastard a piece of my mind,” Istha growls.

 

........................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

The guards yell at her as she approaches, but Istha's march into the Hall of Kings is fuelled by the fury of a dragon and an entire race scorned for generations. She barely hears their protestations or feels the hands pulling at her as she throws open the doors and strides in.

The Jarl is eating an early breakfast with another man who wears some kind of ridiculous-looking bear pelt on his head. They both freeze as Istha storms in.

“Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak,” Istha begins in her best mockery of a respectful greeting. “I hope you slept well. Did the screams of my people as their homes went up in fire make for an agreeable lullaby? Was it fit for a king?”

Ulfric stands. Istha is too angry to feel threatened by his towering height, and jabs a finger into his chest with her last word. The leader of the Stormcloaks scrutinizes her face, and makes no move other than to put his hand up to halt the guards that came in after Istha.

“I know you,” he says. “Survived Helgen, did we?”

“Forget Helgen, I want to talk about Windhelm,” Istha says. “Last night, some of your lovely Nord citizens decided it would be funny to break into the used wares store and set a fire. Are you laughing, Stormcloak? Because nobody in the Gray Quarter is. Three Elves nearly died trying to put out that fire! Or do their deaths not matter because their skin is not white and their ears are not rounded?”

“Show some respect to your Jarl!” the bear-man thunders, pulling out his weapon.

“He's not my Jarl,” Istha responds, not pulling her gaze away from Ulfric. “I'm a traveller. I've been here a single night and I've already seen more injustices committed here than I have in the rest of Skyrim. A group of Dunmer came to your doors early this morning to ask for compensation for the fire, and do you know what your damned guardsmen told them?”

“I'm sure you intend to tell me,” Ulfric remarks quietly. Istha's shoulders shake with anger.

“The problems of the Dark Elves are beneath the Jarl's concerns,” Istha quotes, her voice quiet with the strain of keeping it from breaking.

“I've never said such a thing,” Ulfric argues, taking a step forward and glaring down at the tiny Elf woman. Istha sneers.

“Your denial doesn't hold any weight as long as it is your orders that keep my people in their suffering,” Istha says. The bear-man's face is so red that he looks like he might pass out from the blatant disrespect that Istha is showing, but Ulfric's raised hand prevents him or the guards from making a move against her.

“Please, traveller, I'm sure we can talk about this more reasonably. Calm down,” Ulfric says, and Istha snaps when he lays a heavy hand on her shoulder. A Shout rips from her throat before she can bite down on it. _Fus!_ Istha is shocked when Ulfric goes flying, pushed backwards by a force she cannot see and cannot feel but can sense indirectly. The guards yell and take Istha's new aggression as a sign that their Jarl's orders can now be overridden. Before she can fight back, she is slammed against the table, arms wrenched behind her back. The still-healing burns on Istha's abdomen flare up again, and as the guards drag her away from the Hall she feels the cracks in her skin reopen and start oozing blood.  
  
She is thrown into a surprisingly comfortable bedroom, and paces it furiously for a moment after the door is locked behind her. The guards confiscate both her weapons and her lockpicks, and the tiny windows are out of the question. How could she be so stupid as to Shout at Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak? Eventually she resigns herself to her fate and undresses partially to take a closer look at her side. She is right, the raw skin has started bleeding again. She heals herself again until the effect of the spell and the rapid magic depletion makes her feel light-headed, and is pleased with her results. The worst of the burns will take another healing session or two to get back to normal, and of course the injury will scar the way all injuries not immediately healed by magic scar, but she can now move about her room without a great deal of pain.

Aside from the two beds, there is a small table by a lit fireplace. She picks up a sweetroll from the plate that rests on it, and curses Ulfric for the obvious difference in luxury between the Gray Quarter and this... this.... prison cell. A prison cell with fur blankets and a fireplace and confections. _Unbelievable._

She munches on it as she paces the room and searches more thoroughly for an escape, not about to pass up free food. The only thing that seems reasonable is the fireplace, but she just evaded one fire. She's not about to throw herself into another without a plan. Eventually she lays down on one of the beds and naps for an hour or two. Sleep is fitful. She wakes when a servant enters the room with a tray. He does not meet her eye as he sets it on the table, and scampers out quickly. She stands as the door closes behind him, and strides over to the jug of water he has just brought her. Her gaze drifts to the fire.

 _Will this be enough?_ She won't know unless she tries. She picks up the jug and hurls its contents onto the flaming logs. They hiss in protest as the water extinguishes most of the flames, and she pours what remains in the jug very slowly over the regions that are still smoking lightly.

The door opens. Istha jumps, and presses her back into the far corner, red eyes flickering with apprehension when she sees that her visitor is Ulfric Stormcloak. She holds onto the jug, as though she can use it like some kind of weapon against the giant Nord that pulls aside one of the chairs by the table and sits in it. He watches her, strangely serene for someone she attacked just a few hours ago.

“Was the fire not to your liking?” he asks, his head nodding towards the drenched fireplace. She says nothing. Another servant enters, sets the table for two. Tea. A simple activity, but one that Istha has not sat down for since she left Morrowind. The servant leaves and the door closes with a sense of finality. Istha remains silent.

"You've caused quite a stir in my council, Dragonborn,” Ulfric says eventually.  
  
"Don't call me that."  
  
"Why not? It's what you are, isn't it? Strange, we received reports just two days ago that a Nord man from Whiterun had revealed himself as the Dragonborn, but couriers these days are so unreliable. Who knows?" That insufferable man. Istha frowns as he begins spooning sugar into his tea. He tastes it and grimaces as he adds more.  
  
"Are you going to kill me?" Istha asks finally.  
  
"No. In fact - and my council thinks I've gone bonkers for suggesting this - I want to... recruit you, if you will. The Stormcloaks could use a girl like you,” he says. Istha's skin prickles.

"Woman."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"Woman. I'm older than I look."  
  
"Of course. My apologies. I often forget that your kind lives for hundreds of years,” Ulfric says, and he really does look so apologetic that Istha might have believed him. If she was extraordinarily stupid.  
  
"You forget many things about my people, it seems. Like their rights,” Istha spits.  
  
"Rights, Dragonborn? And what would those be? They are outsiders that I have permitted to live in my home. Isn't that enough?"

The nerve of this man. Istha sets the jug down on a nearby dresser and stalks towards him, jabbing a finger in his direction as she talks.  
  
"Outsiders? Even the children who were born here and have never set eyes on Morrowind, they are outsiders as well?"  
  
"Please, there's no need to raise your voice. You misunderstand me, Dragonborn. I don't wish to make an enemy out of you. I've spent the last two hours thinking,” Ulfric says, raising his hands with his palms towards her in a gesture of peace.  
  
"He thinks? Mother of all miracles!" Istha mutters. It is not wise of her to try to antagonize a man that has the power to decide whether she is freed or executed, but sharp words are all she has right now. Well, and spells. But she thinks she should keep her spells to herself for now. Ulfric leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. He looks thoughtful.  
  
"My father... He was better than I am at assuring the love of his people. I've never asked my men to die for my sake. I thought their love for Skyrim would be enough to overcome the oppression of the Imperials but... This war is at a standstill, foreigner. Perhaps you don't see this land the way I do, but I promise it was not always like this. I want to end it already, before Skyrim is ravaged further. And the only way I see of doing that is to prove to the people who doubt me that I am not the cold-hearted murderer they think I am,” he says.  
  
"I want nothing to do with your politics.”  
  
"Then you may think of it as less of politics, and more of an arrangement. As Dragonborn, you have a tremendous amount of power in swaying people your way. If you help me turn this war in my favour, I will make sure your people are rewarded handsomely,” he says, not showing a flicker of shame or humility for offering to buy her off.  
  
"You can't buy the love of the Dunmer, Stormcloak. We are a proud people,” Istha says. _You're also a bastard, there's that to consider too. I wouldn't want to help you._  
  
"I've noticed,” Ulfric says dryly. “Won't you think about our agreement?"  
  
"I don't need to. I don't want to be part of this war. You called me a foreigner, remember? What duty do I have to a land that has no love for me?" Istha says. She remembers the attitude of the Graybeards towards her, and the staring children in Riverwood, and the Imperial Captain who would have executed her without a second thought. Skyrim is cold, not just in temperature but in the way it treats people.  
  
"Dragonborn-" Ulfric begins.  
  
"I'm not the Dragonborn!" Istha shouts, her hands balling into fists to contain the fire spells that threaten to pour out. Ulfric blinks at her outburst.  
  
"As the one you Shouted at, I have quite a different opini-"  
  
"I. Am. No. Dragon,” Istha hisses, enunciating every word around barred teeth. Ulfric sighs and stands up, his blue robes swishing with the movement. Istha's narrowed eyes follow him as he walks to the door. Oh, so he's going to leave her here now to wallow in her decision? Typical. But to her surprise, he opens the door and holds it for Istha, stepping aside. She does not move. It must be a trick, it must be.

"You are free to go,” Ulfric says with a note of exasperation, after they remain frozen for a good minute. “Your equipment is in a chest in the room with the map on the table.” Istha shifts her weight on her feet. Is there someone waiting outside to behead her if she runs through the doorway?  
  
"Am I really?" she asks.  
  
"Yes. On your way out of the city, please take the opportunity to look at the Elves you have abandoned to their fate. May their despair change your mind and bring you back to me,” Ulfric says, his tone condescending. Gods, she hates this man.  
  
"You know, you could do good deeds without having something done for you in return,” she says as she inches towards the door. The corners of Ulfric's mouth twitch upward into something vaguely resembling a smile, if the man were capable of one.  
  
"No one ever gets to be powerful by doling out good deeds, Dragonborn,” he says. There is a strange tone of bitterness in his voice, but she does not care enough to wonder about it.  
  
"If you call me that one more time I will Shout you off the face of this world,” she threatens.

"There's a Shout for that? Interesting. Of course, the Graybeards would have never taught me something like that,” he says mildly. She leaves the Palace of Kings as quickly as possible, walking stiffly and darting furtive looks over her shoulder. She doesn't trust the Jarl not to change his mind and send his guards to recapture her.

It is for this reason that when her sharp elven hearing detects a patrol coming around the corner, she runs forward on a bridge and hides behind some kind of small tower. No good, they're coming this way. She tries the door - locked. Her lockpicks are back in their usual spot in her boot, so she slips one into her hand and jiggles the lock. The heavy footsteps fall closer and closer, the guards laugh raucously at a shared joke.

The door opens. She slips in without another moment's hesitation, and then freezes with her hand on the doorknob behind her when she hears the child chanting. She sneaks up the stairs like a cat, her red eyes wide as she catches sight of the human child bent over his macabre display. He sobs over the nightshade-sprinkled skeleton as he stabs what looks like a human heart repeatedly.

Istha makes no move or sound, but somehow the boy senses her presence and turns around anyway. He lets out a joyful cry and rushes forward as though to give her a hug, which makes Istha pull out her bow and hold the wooden arc horizantally between them. The boy still presses as close as he can, beaming at Istha. It disturbs her. No one's smiled at her like that, not since - but now is not the time to think about her Nord.  
  
"You came! I did the Sacrament and it worked and you came! I waited for so long, you know, I wasn't sure you would come, but you did, and here we are!"  
  
Istha says nothing. If she wasn't a fugitive herself, she'd call the guards on this poor child. His brains are utterly scrambled. A stay at an orphanage with some other children his age might be just what he needs.

"You're going to kill Grelod the Kind! I don't have any gold to pay you with, but I have this family heirloom. It must be worth something, I'm sure. You can do that, right? She's an utter witch!"  
  
Istha takes the plate he pushes into her hands and backs away without saying anything as the boy continues his ramblings. At this point, she'll take the guards over the lunatic she's stuck in a house with. She passes through the door and keeps going. She does not look back again, not at Ulfric Stormcloak, not at the crazy boy's house, not at Windhelm and its damned Quarters. She's wasted enough time already.

 

........................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

The wind only gets colder and stronger the further North she goes, until she can barely walk forward in its gale and it feels like every extra second spent outside bites at her blood.

The _dovah_ within her is restless.

 _Fly_ , it tells her. Istha presses that part of her down, dismissing it as an impossibility. She will never be Dragonborn again, not after the unending string of disasters is has brought her. Let Larjan plod along on a path he never agreed to, let him run errands and fetch trash from dirty tombs to his heart's content. Let him be the hero. She has control of her own fate, and right now, her decision is to get to the College of Winterhold or die trying.

But the hours go on and the monotony of the howling snowstorm is broken only by wolf attacks, and then not even those, when the wolves retreat to their dens and stay curled beneath the snow. Perhaps the mindless beasts are not so stupid. Istha's breath comes with difficulty, and though she has her fur hood up and a scarf over her mouth, the thin material soaks through with her breath and soon every inhalation pulls an icy chill into her lungs.

She begins to rethink her earlier statement – it seems that she really will die trying to get to the College. Dying of cold exposure seems so... pathetic. She deserves better, can do better. The wolves won't have her carcass just yet. She tells herself this as she falls over and curls up in the snow, her knees drawn up to her chin. Her teeth chatter and her body shakes with violent shivers. She is so tired.

From the ground, she sees an orange-robed figure approach slowly, just a faint blur against the swirling white backdrop.

“Help,” she tries to say. Her throat has frozen solid.

She goes to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm going on a trip tomorrow and I'll be back in about five days. I may update while I'm gone, I may not. We shall see.


	11. L - Pursuit of a Ghost

They wait in Ivarstead for the entire morning, hoping she'll show up. When Larjan gets itchy and starts peeling the remnants of paint off of Vilemyr Inn's porch, Lydia decides it is time for a distraction. They leave a persuasive message with the innkeeper Wilhelm to keep Istha in Ivarstead if by some miracle she does show up, and decide to investigate the supposedly haunted barrow just outside the town. Wilhelm swears it is driving away any potential customers, but both Larjan and Lydia are doubtful.

"Even just poking our heads inside might calm them down a bit," Lydia suggests. "Poor town has its knickers in a twist."

Larjan has to snicker at this, even though Istha's absence weighs on his shoulder and a tiny voice whispers in his ear that he isn't allowed to be happy as long as he doesn't even know if she's alive or not. He lets out a tired breath as they duck into the outer structure of the barrow, and Lydia pokes at a few skeletons experimentally.  
  
"Come on," he says, and they enter the barrow. Larjan's not entirely sure what awaits them inside - draugr he can deal with, he had enough experience with slicing through the damned things in Bleak Falls. But something has spurned the spectral rumours in town, and that something has them both moving as silently as possible down the stairs and into the first chamber. Larjan's toe knocks over a candlestick, and he freezes as it clatters to the ground. Nothing moves. He thinks they've gotten away with the noise when a ghost of a man appears on the other side of a locked gate.  
  
"Leave this place! Leave..." the apparition warns in a wavering voice, and then whirls around a corner and out of sight. He and Lydia remain silent for a moment, looking at each other. A decision is easily made, without needing words.  
  
"How do we kill a ghost?" Lydia asks, looking a bit puzzled as she explores a room off to the side filled with two sets of levers.  
  
"Hack at it?" Larjan suggests, his shoulderpads rising uncertainly. "If that doesn't work, we scold it for haunting Ivarstead and make it feel ashamed enough to return to Oblivion."  
  
Lydia chuckles quietly, and pulls a lever at random. It is only the clink of tiny gears turning and a rush of air that alerts Larjan to what comes next. He pulls Lydia out of the room with the levers and pushes them both to the ground. She struggles, but only until she hears the ping of poisoned darts bouncing harmlessly off the walls and onto the stone.

"Wrong lever," Larjan says, standing up warily. He examines the remaining three, and props Lydia's wooden shield between him and the dart holes before tugging on another lever. The room he is in is abruptly sealed off with a gate. He sighs and puts the lever back. The next one raises the gate the spirit was behind, but again lowers the one in front of Larjan. He pulls the second lever again, and the way is clear.  
  
"Looks like you have way more experience with tombs than I do," Lydia announces as she follows him through the next pathway as quietly as possible. He shakes his head absentmindedly and examines the tiny trapwire on the next door.  
  
"You may be inexperienced, but you're strong and you learn quickly. Stick with me and you'll be fine," Larjan says. He pulls out a lockpick from his pack, one of only a few he still has left over from Bleak Falls. Damned treasure chests. He normally lets Istha do this kind of business, because his large hands lack the patience of her delicate fingers, but the trap is easily disabled and the door opens without bringing an axe down on their heads or something equally unpleasant.

And then the 'ghost' reappears, shrieking about guarding the secret of the tomb. Larjan instinctively runs him through with his sword, and somehow, though it doesn't make any sense, the ghost shudders as he is impaled and collapses to the ground. The two Nord adventurers stare as the man's spectral glow fades and all that is left is a perfectly normal corpse.

"Why, it was just a crazy Dark Elf," Lydia murmurs, daring to poke the dead man's cheek with her finger. Larjan moves past the body to a small room where it appears the fraud was living. A journal lies open on the desk, and he picks it up, skimming through the ink-blotted pages.  
  
"We should take this to Wilhelm," he says, and once they've relieved the dead liar of his valuables, they retreat to Ivarstead. The innkeeper is incredulous at first, but the undeniable proof is within the pages of the journal. Larjan hopes for a bit of gold as a reward to fund their journey to Ustengrav, but Wilhelm instead gives them the Sapphire claw that the 'spectre' went insane over. Larjan pockets it with a frown.  
  
Once outside the inn, Lydia asks where they'll go next. Larjan does not answer immediately, lost in thought.

"I think there's a Word in the barrow," he says.  
  
"A Word?"  
  
"In the dragon language. It teaches me a Shout, sort of. I get this pain in my forehead every time I try to think about it. I don't know why, but I think we should explore it."  
  
"As you wish, my Thane," Lydia says. Larjan searches her face for any sign of sarcasm at the title, but there is none. I've gotten too used to Istha, he thinks, shaking his blond head slowly. They return to the barrow, following Larjan's strange dragon intuition. He remembers some kind of drawbridge, and draugr, and then he finds himself bent over on his knees, struggling to keep his breakfast down. Somewhere far, far above, he senses tiny pricklings of presence.   
  
 _KAAN_  
  
The word blazes in his mind for what seems like an eternity before it finally fades away and he can see his surroundings again. He finds himself in the shelter of a Word Wall for the second time since returning to Skyrim, this time with a worried Lydia leaning over him instead of a coolly uninterested Istha. Having someone concerned for him is a new feeling, but one he kind of likes. He never really got the impression that Istha cared about his safety beyond keeping him alive long enough to escort her to her destination.

"How long was I out?" he asks her. Lydia shakes her head.  
  
"You weren't actually unconscious, I think," she replies. "Just bent over like you were in a lot of pain for a few minutes. Not more than five. A draugr arrived late to the party but I decapitated it."  
  
He chuckles at that, and slowly his headache fades and his breathing returns to normal. At least the effect of the Words on him are starting to diminish. He's quite glad. He shudders to think what could happen if he approached a wall in the middle of combat and passed out for several hours like in Bleak Falls.

"Did you see anything? Or feel anything from the wall?" he asks, gesturing at the now silent carvings behind them.  
  
"Nothing."

"...Yeah, I didn't think you would. Guess I really am Dragonborn, then," he says with an attempt at a laugh. Lydia helps him up silently, and though he sways slightly he manages to follow her into an exit tunnel.  
  
"Does it scare you?" she asks once they're outside again. Larjan breathes in the humid afternoon air and shakes his head.  
  
"No. I was always looking for trouble as a kid, now I guess I just got my wish," he says. _It's not exactly a lie._ Lydia only smiles. "I think we should leave for Ustengrav," he says. "I've been thinking, and it makes sense. Istha must have gone on ahead to get the horn, because if we went with her, the Graybreads might accuse me of doing it for her."  
  
"Do you think we should let her do it, then? Maybe she's right. Maybe this is the only way to convince the Graybeards," Lydia suggests uncertainly. Larjan shakes his head in violent denial.

"Absolutely not," he says, and there is no further argument from his housecarl. "If anyone could just waltz into the place and take the horn, what kind of a test would it be? It's not just Ustengrav that must be incredibly dangerous, think of the journey! The three of us barely brought down a dragon, and she's alone now."  
  
"She has more than half a day's journey on us," Lydia estimates. "And she's not carrying the weight we are. It's going to be tough to catch up to her."  
  
"We have to try. Whiterun has horses, right?" Larjan says, his face immediately brightening as a plan starts coming together in his mind. Lydia nods, and the decision is made. They bid goodbye to the small town of Ivarstead, and set off on the same winding road that brought them here scarcely a few days ago. They're only about an hour's walk away from Valtheim Towers when dusk falls and Larjan decides it's time to set up camp. Bandit towers are usually relatively easy to avoid, but Valtheim Towers is an unavoidable bottleneck, and therefore constantly occupied by new groups of gold-hungry outlaws. They're already sore enough from the draugr that morning, and so it is with relief and satisfaction that they find a little clearing off the road where they can start a fire and lay out their bedrolls.  
  
Lydia disappears to the river - to wash, he assumes, and lets her be - but returns not long after with a pheasant dangling from her fist. The look on her face is pleased as they pluck it and roast it over the fire, though he can't help but remember the way Istha's arrows were always through the animal's head or neck; somewhere where the meat wasn't ruined. He berates himself for making the comparison - Lydia's strengths lie elsewhere, after all.

They talk about their childhoods over dinner. Lydia has been in Whiterun all her life, with the exception of a few summers spent in Solitude when her father was called away on his work, and she's happy to divulge this information. Larjan, on the other hand, avoids mentioning all concrete details of his life, preferring vague stories of adventure and interesting anecdotes. He grew up not far from Whiterun, so the chance that she's heard his last name mentioned in unsavoury situations is all too present in his mind. She then asks how he came to know Istha, and he is faced with an even bigger conundrum.  
  
"You two are so different," Lydia muses, oblivious to her companion's discomfort. "I've been trying to figure out how you partnered up, and I've come up empty. Do you think it was the dragon blood? Just... something that pulled you together, that you never noticed? Although... You said you both had urges to attack each other when one of you ate a dragon soul. That doesn't really make sense..."  
  
Larjan shrugs.

"I don't know. Maybe. Nothing really makes sense anymore," he says as he repacks their belongings. _You never know when you need to make a quick getaway._ Lydia keeps pressing for more information, so eventually Larjan gives in and gives her one of the more flattering versions of the truth.

"I ran out of money pretty quickly in Cyrodiil. I was young and stupid, I'd never had enough gold to know how to control myself when I did get it. I wisened up a few months, decided to make myself a sellsword and work my way back to Skyrim. Except..." He falters, his mind grasping for excuses and finding none. Lydia waits patiently, her calm face painted into sharp contrast by the fire's flickering orange light. "I got into an argument with one of my clients, just South of the border. He... wanted my services for something illegal. We fought. I... I didn't mean to kill him, but no one really listens to a murderer trying to defend himself, you know? I didn't have the money to pay off my bounty, so the town sold me to a mine owner who lived nearby. They called him the Master. Never learned his real name. He was a bit of pyscho. Five years of work for him, and they said they'd set me free."  
  
"Where does Istha come in?" Lydia asks softly. Her features are proud and stern, like those of most Nords. Nord faces are not renowned for their gentleness, but in the dim light he thinks he might mistake her expression for just that.  
  
"Around the three year mark. We were underground from dawn to dusk, never a day off. I hadn't seen the sun in so long that sometimes I'd sneak outside to look at the stars. Istha was visiting the Master, I think - I never really found out what she was doing there, actually. You'll have to ask her yourself. She caught me, and I thought that was it for me. Breaking the Master's rules meant instant execution, you see. But instead she made a deal with me. I wanted freedom, she wanted someone to guide her to Skyrim."  
  
"Why you?" Lydia asks. "I mean, don't take that the wrong way. It's just that Dark Elves aren't usually so willing to deal with Nords."  
  
Larjan shrugs, and digs a bottle of mead out of his pack. He pops the cork, takes a deep swig, and passes the bottle along to shut her up while he tries to gather his thoughts.

"I don't know. I don't know anything about Istha," he realizes. "But the next day, she set everything on fire. It was chaos. She grabbed my hand and we escaped when everyone else was busy trying to put out her damn inferno. The way she acted, all the secrecy, made it seem like she was a fugitive too. I've never seen a fugitive that wealthy, though. Before the Imperials caught us just outside of Helgen, we had really good gear."  
  
They fall into silence, passing the bottle between them until they've drained every drop. Larjan hefts the empty glass in his hand, then throws it as hard as he can in the direction of the river. A moment later, they hear the faint tinkling of glass.  
  
"Good night," he says to Lydia, and crawls into his bedroll with his back to her and the fire. There is no response.

  
  
.................................................................................................................................................................................

 

They reach Morthal two days later, and are dismayed when no one in the tiny, ramshackle town that greets them has seen a Dark Elf by Istha's description. The innkeeper is a pretty Redguard woman whose face grows grim when they ask.

"It wouldn't be the first time people have disappeared around these parts," she says as she wipes a glass with a dirty rag. "I'm sorry, but it's likely your friend never even reached Morthal."  
  
"She's quite capable of taking care of herself," Lydia insists. Larjan drags her away.  
  
"Come on," he says, and they continue on to Ustengrav on foot, having left the horses in the miller's care. It starts raining as they walk over the bridge to the mill, and the downpour almost convinces him to return to Moorside Inn for a meal and a hot bath, but he thinks of Istha lying facedown in a river somewhere, and forces himself to trudge on.

  
  
.................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Ustengrav does nothing to endear itself to Larjan. They walk straight into some kind of dispute between a group of bandits and shadowy figures in the distinct robes of necromancy, and of course both groups don't take kindly to Larjan and Lydia stumbling upon them. What makes the ensuing battle even more irritating is that the necromancers resurrect a bandit for every one they manage to kill, and by the time the criminals lie dead, Larjan is in a foul mood. He no longer feels an inkling of guilt. Lydia hangs back as he stomps down the stairs into a small circular hollow where the door to the crypt awaits.

"Ready?" he asks, some of the tension in his neck and shoulders softening when he looks back at her.  
  
"I am your sword and shield," she recites. The ceremonial words are a familiar mantra to her, one that gathers her courage for one more adventure. He smiles halfway, and the door opens. The draugr do not hesitate to attack, and so, neither does Larjan.  
  
Fighting with Lydia at his back is drastically different then fighting with Istha. For one, Lydia stands so... close. He nearly decapitates her several times with too-enthusiastic swordstrokes. He's used to having the entire immediate area to himself while Istha picks off anyone who gets too close to him with ranged attacks, but Lydia prefers her own sword to the simple hunting bow she carries and insists on standing at his side. He's irritated by the close quarters until they come to the Word Wall, and then the soothing voice in his ear and the arm around his waist holding him upright is more than welcome as a third Word assaults his mind. This one is slightly softer than the previous two he's found, but even a mere whisper of it in his skull makes him feel dizzy and translucent.

"You okay there?" Lydia asks.  
  
"In a minute," Larjan murmurs, his eyes closed as the dizziness retreats. _FEIM._ He doesn't know what that means yet, but he knows it's only a matter of time before he stumbles across a _dovah_ whose memory can unlock the secrets of the Word to him.  
  
It never even occurs to him to stop and slow down. He is a man with a mission, and even if he never asked for this mission he moves relentlessly forward, determined to finish it.

  
  
............................................................................................................................................................................................

 

The stone figureheads rising out of the water in the altar room nearly give them both a heart attack. Larjan holds his sword out in front of him, warily scanning from side to side as he creeps up the walkway in the middle of the room, but no draugr leap out at him with blazing blue eyes and teeth everlastingly bared. Two of the damned things lie in crumpled heaps on either side of the altar, as though someone as already run a sword through them.

"Are they... dead already?" Lydia whispers hesitantly. "I mean, dead-dead?"  
  
Larjan nudges one with his foot, and nods curtly. There are footsteps in the dust, footsteps that are far closer to Lydia's size than his. He was right - Istha's been here already.

"Larjan, you'd better read this," Lydia says, her voice trembling as she hands him a folded piece of paper that was resting on the altar. His eyes scan the words, and his anger grows.  
  
 _Dragonborn -_

_I need to speak to you. Urgently._  
 _Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you._

_\- A friend_  
  
He understands that she's upset with the Graybeards - he would be too, if they treated him the way they treat her. But this... This is absurd. Running off like this is childish of her. Like it or not, as Dragonborn they have a duty to Skyrim and its people.

"What is she trying to prove with this elusiveness?" he mutters. "She got the horn without us somehow, why is she leading us on some sort of wild goose chase to Riverwood?"

"Are you sure this is Istha's work?" Lydia asks.  
  
"Who else could it be?" Larjan insists. "How far is Riverwood from here?"  
  
Lydia pulls out their map and spreads it onto the altar. She discards her gauntlets and measures out the distance she estimates they can cover in one day intervals with quick fingers.

"We can make it to Morthal in a few hours," she says. "Sleep there. If the miller still has our horses, we should reach Whiterun in about a day and a half. Then another half day journey to Riverwood?"

He sits down on the steps leading to the altar and puts his head in his hands. This entire trip, all for nothing. He thought they'd surely catch up to Istha along the way, especially since what should have been a four day trip on foot from Whiterun to Morthal only took them two days on horse, and yet she remains out of his grasp. _Damned Elf._ All of this; slaying draugr after draugr even after his palms began to blister with the weight of his greatsword; nearly breaking his neck on his way down to the Word Wall at the bottom of the waterfall; finally making it past those damn three gates... Everything was just a colossal waste of time.  
  
"Let's go," Larjan says grudgingly, standing up and shaking Lydia's comforting hand off his shoulder. "We have a horn to hunt down."  



	12. I - Valid Instruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love M'aiq.

Istha's eyes flicker open; once, twice. They remain open after the third time. A delicious smell wafts past her nose and she turns her head, surprised to feel her skin rub against warm fur. A bedroll, but not hers. The snow has stopped but the sky above her remains stark white. Someone is humming off-tune, she can't see who from her position. Istha sits up, muscles groaning in protest. Her side is aching again, the one not healed quickly enough after the fire in Windhelm. The humming pauses.

"M'aiq wishes you well," a voice purrs from behind her. Istha turns to see an orange robed Khajiit tending to a small fire. The scent that woke her up is coming from a pot that hangs above the fire on a rather unstable spit. Istha says nothing as she crawls out of the bedroll and towards the fire, and the humming resumes. She shivers, but the cold that greets her is not nearly as bad as it was earlier. This Khajiit, this strange "M'aiq" must have saved her from a very slow and cold death. She nods at him in thanks as she warms her hands by the flickering flame.  
  
"M'aiq does not see so many travellers on the roads anymore, not since everyone believes the dragons have come back," the Khajiit says, occasionally peeking under the lid of the pot to check on whatever it is he's cooking. The sweet smell is unfamiliar to Istha but she hopes firstly that he will let her have some, and secondly that none of his fur is in it. The cat clicks his tongue in displeasure and continues. "All fools, of course, all but M'aiq. Dragons were never gone. They were just invisible and very, very quiet."  
  
Istha snorts at this. She can't help it - this creature is ridiculous. M'aiq gives her a glare.

"Such rudeness. M'aiq saved your life. That is to say, this one prevented your death at the hands of snow, if snow had hands. Much snow in Skyrim. Enough snow. M'aiq does not want it anymore," he announces with distaste. His slanted eyes fix themselves on Istha. "You do not talk. Does the cat have your tongue?"

Istha stares at her feline companion as he laughs at his own joke. His laugh starts as a half-purring, half-choking rumble in his chest that moves up in his throat until Istha is sure he will cough up a hairball right then and there. His words, however layered in double meaning, strike a chord in her. Her voice has only brought her pain and misery. She asked too many questions in Morrowind, and had to flee the truth. She dared to Shout in the _dovah_ language to the Greybeards, and was only denied her right as Dragonborn. She spoke up against prejudice in Windhelm, and received an expansive burn on her torso for her troubles. At this point it seems like silence is the best thing she could do for herself. Her voice can no longer be trusted and so, she will deny it. The decision brings her a strange sort of peace.

"That is okay, M'aiq understands. People are always bothering this one for conversation," the Khajiit says, and finally takes his pot off the fire. "Fondue, for you."

Istha gives him what she hopes looks like a grateful smile, but she knows her facial features are not ones usually suited for expressions of friendliness. M'aiq's 'fondue' is some sort of warm white mush. The first few spoonfuls almost immediately bring tingles to her extremities and fill her tired bones with energy, and she worries momentarily that it is laced with moon sugar. Her companion is, after all, a Khajiit with rather addled brains. But the comfort the fondue gives her is so welcome that she finishes it anyway, licking the bowl when she is done. Her manners are not those of someone of her upbringing, but she doesn't care. She doesn't.

She is beyond caring. Forget everything that defined her – Istha of House Telvanni is a new person, a blank canvas. She roots around her pack for her map – a tattered, yellowed scrap of a thing. M'aiq looks at her with vague interest as she spreads it on the snow between them and jabs her finger at Winterhold with a questioning look.

“You are going to Winterhold? How does anyone know there was a city of Winterhold? M'aiq did not see it with his eyes. Did you? This one presumes you want to study at the College. M'aiq wishes to warn you. Too much magic can be dangerous. M'aiq once had two spells and burned his sweetroll.”

Damn the cat to Oblivion. Istha can't possibly comprehend how an entire race can speak only in riddles and still get anything accomplished. She points at Winterhold again, pushing the map closer to the Khajiit before his attention wanders again.

“The map says there is a city,” M'aiq says mildly. Istha is about to strangle him. “If the map is to be believed, it is quite close by. M'aiq would accompany you up the road, but this one is on a mission. A mission to find calipers. M'aiq is always in search of calipers, yet he finds none. If your College does not exist, you may join this one on his quest.”

Istha nods and rolls up her map, satisfied to have gotten some kind of information out of the creature. She's not sure why he's rambling about calipers and Winterhold existing or not, but she will continue North nonetheless. She stands, pulling her fur cloak tighter around her shoulders and hoisting the pack over her back. She bows her head slightly to M'aiq, who bows in turn to her.

“This one wishes you well,” he says to her retreating back.  
  
The walk is lonely and winding, but she is grateful at least that it is not snowing nearly as hard as it was the night before. The road curves around the slope of the mountain, and suddenly she can see a castle up ahead. She walks faster now, almost running in her haste. Winterhold lays before her, tiny and unassuming, but she only cares about the College anyway.

An Elf stands at the entranceway to the bridge spanning the huge gap between the College and the mainland. Istha slows her pace and come to a halt in front of the woman, who scans her up and down with some level of arrogance.

“My name is Faralda. I guard the entrance. You wish to enter the College?” she asks. Istha can only nod in response. “Not everyone is permitted to join, of course. Some natural skill is required, so I will have to put you through a test first. Do you know the Healing Hands spell?”

Yes, Istha knows it. She knows it well, remembers every moment she spent sending the warm glow of health over to Larjan as he fought draugr and cave bears, remembers the grateful smile she'd always get in return for her efforts. Healing spells require good intention and pleasant memories, or else they can leech health instead of granting it. She thinks about Larjan – before Mirmulnir attacked, before everything went to Oblivion - as she raises her hands and heals Faralda. The other Elf gives a murmur of appreciation and steps back, walking up the bridge.

Istha hesitates only a fraction of a second before following her. She doesn't know what spell the woman uses to light the wells that dot the terraces of the bridge, and watches her with such interest that she almost misses the Breton woman who greets them in the courtyard.

“My name is Mirabelle Ervine. Welcome to the College, mage.”

  
  
........................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Istha settles into the College far easier than she would have imagined. She keeps to herself the first few days, preferring to stand in the background when their elderly professor Tolfdir lectures them – first about protective wards, then some basic Alteration. There are very few other students at the College, and by the end of the first class she can match names to the unfamiliar faces, but doesn't stick around for conversation. Luckily, most of the other students keep to themselves as well.

That is, until Brelyna shows up in her room uninvited. Istha looks up from her copy of _Mystery of Talara_ as the Dunmer girl leans on the archway of her room and fixes her with what Istha assumes is supposed to be an intimidating look. Brelyna is one of the few Dunmer blessed – or cursed – with a rather gentle demeanour instead of their race's usual stern and angular faces, and it is only the surprise of being approached that makes Istha anxious.

“I was very excited when I heard we were getting a new student, especially when Faralda mentioned that you claimed to be from House Telvanni',” Brelyna says. Istha stiffens, and the other girl notices this of course. “I'm quite well acquainted with the Telvanni family. I hoped you'd be someone I knew, but strangely, there is no Istha in the House.”

Istha is as still as a statute, and curses her luck. She had counted on the fact that there were so few Telvanni elves left that she wouldn't come across any who could expose her, but maybe that has only worked against her. She should have chosen another House, one with a greater population. Even if Telvanni explained her aptitude for magic...

"Who are you really?" Brelyna asks, her large eyes glinting and curious.  
  
Very slowly, without taking her eyes off the other woman, Istha reaches into her bedside table and pulls out a scrap of paper and some charcoal. On it, she writes simply _'ISTHA'._

"And before that?" Brelyna presses, a faint scowl darkening her features as she regards the paper.

 _'I AM IN HIDING. MY OLD NAME IS DEAD, AS I WILL BE IF ANYONE FINDS ME."_  
  
"Who are you hiding from?" Brelyna asks rather alarmed, uncrossing her arms and stepping forward. The veiled hostility and suspicion in her posture has been lifted, and in its place is only a need to offer reassurance. Istha shrinks away and hesitates a moment. Then she summons a small flame in her palm and burns her confession until nothing remains of the paper but ash in her hand. Brelyna sits on the edge of Istha's bed, her gaze fixed on Istha's flame.

"Wow, you're good at magic. Do you... do you mind helping me out a bit? I won't tell anyone you're lying about who you are, as long as you help me with this one spell I've been having trouble with," she says. Istha's amber eyes scrutinize the other Dunmer. It's not a bad deal. So she nods and gestures with her hands for Brelyna to come closer, which the other girl does with a happy squeal.  
  
So much childish enthusiasm. _Disgusting._

Once the... misunderstanding about Istha's identity is cleared between them, Brelyna becomes surprisingly cheerful and friendly. The rather unsavoury effect that her spells have on Istha only serve to make Brelyna fuss over her and spoon-feed her apple cabbage soup for several hours, and by the time the nausea wears off, Brelyna has become a permanent fixture.

Istha finds that she does not mind quite as much as she thinks she should. What Brelyna lacks in controlling her natural talent she makes up for in theoretical knowledge, and with a little bit of coaxing and many hours spent in the Arcaneum under the Orc's watchful eye, they both improve their spellcasting. According to Faralda, who turns out to be the College's Destruction professor, both Brelyna's and Istha's greatest need for improvement lies in control.

"Your spells are very strong," Faralda says. "I won't deny that. But raw talent won't do you anything if you can barely rein in your fire. You'll only be able to advance if you learn some patience and balance."  
  
If there's one thing Brelyna excels in over Istha, it's patience.

Just a few days after the two Dunmer become acquainted, Istha wakes up in the middle of the night to find all the other novice students hovering anxiously over her bed. Brelyna strokes her unbraided hair gently and tells her she was crying in her sleep. Istha reaches up to touch her cheeks and is surprised to find tears on her face. J'zargo and Onmund lurk awkwardly in the background for another moment, offering bland encouragement, but leave quickly. Brelyna remains and crawls into bed with her.

"Does this have anything to do with the letter you got today?" Brelyna asks quietly, after a moment of silence they both spend staring at the ceiling. Tears prickle at the corners of Istha's eyes as she swallows thickly and nods. Yes and no.  
  
"Do you want to talk about it? I mean, I know you can't talk and all, but we could light a candle and write..."  
  
Istha shakes her head. The letter in question lies inside her bedside table, unsealed and neatly folded. Istha already knows what it says, even has the words memorized.

_Dear Istha,_  
  
 _We met in Whiterun, though if you do not remember me that is perfectly fine. You may have been more than a little tipsy. I write you this letter because recently two people - a Dunmer man and woman - showed up in Whiterun looking for someone that closely matches your description, though they did not call you Istha. If you know of any reason why they would have a bounty on the head of one Rivnye Larketh of House Redoran, I would watch my back closely. The Companions look after their own. As you are Thane Larjan's partner, that support extends to you. If you ever need assistance in Whiterun, you know who to ask for._  
  
 _\- Athis_

"Oh, okay. Um, do you want to talk about something else?"

Istha nods, and Brelyna starts telling her about her childhood in Solstheim. Istha's tears fall with increasing rarity, until they are both immersed in Brelyna's storytelling - imagine, mushrooms with hollow interiors! Stalks you need to levitate through to get home! - and her eyes are dry. She hopes Brelyna senses her gratitude for the distraction, and luckily, she seems to.

They fall asleep holdings hands.

The peace cannot last, of course. The next day Tolfdir decides to take his novice students on a trip to the College's Saarthal excavation, and somehow a new recruit manages to blast a hole in a wall to an entirely new underground area. If a higher power above heard her pleas for a distraction from her troubles, they certainly provided one. Istha and Brelyna spend the next afternoon pouring over books in the Arcaneum to try to avoid the increasingly-grouchy Thalmor advisor, and learn more about the mysterious orb that now occupies the Hall of Elements and their professors' attention, only to be told by the grouchy librarian that the one book he thinks could help them was stolen several weeks ago.  
  
Brelyna offers to go retrieve the missing books from Fellglow Keep with her usual cheerful attitude. Istha's involvement is, of course, non-negotiable. Brelyna claims the fresh air will do her some good. Istha has the urge to mutter that being allowed to study her magic in peace will do her more good, but her vow of silence remains as present in her mind as ever.

She dons her enchanted leather armour for the first time since she has entered the College and is surprised by how familiar the smooth leather feels and how easily her hands adjust the buckles. It fits like a second skin. Adrianne Avenicci clearly knows what she is doing.

"You look a lot more ready than I feel," Brelyna says when she catches sight of Istha decked out in her travelling gear. Istha can only smile vaguely and shrug a shoulder. They hitch a carriage to Windhelm - all expenses paid by the College - and Istha hurries them past the stables and on the road as quickly as possible.  
  
To her horror they spot the now familiar silhouette of a dragon circling over the road ahead of them. Istha panics, remembering the harsh light and the flood of violent memories that nearly drowned her when she devoured the soul of the dragon on the Seven Thousand Steps, and knows if they go near it that her _dovah_ blood will be revealed to Brelyna. Luckily, the other Dunmer has absolutely no intention of being burned to a crisp that day, and readily agrees to take a different path to Fellglow Keep. Unfortunately all the time they saved by taking the carriage halfway is lost by the detour they have to take to avoid the horrid creature.

Dusk has fallen by the time they reach Fellglow Keep, after a day and a half of walking. They are exhausted, dirty, and hungry, but any intention they had of resting before attacking the mages' hideout is overridden by the fireball that is lobbed their way before then even get close. Brelyna acts faster than Istha can think, immediately casting Oakflesh on both of them and summoning a Frost Atronach. Istha sends her own Flame Atronach after Brelyna's lumbering one, and readies her bow. She has a few simple poisons on her, having experimented with Skyrim's strange plants at the College, but she wants to save them, and satisfies herself with the Nordic arrows in her quiver.

It's too dark to shoot very well, however, and the Atronachs finish the battle for them. Istha approaches the rather poorly-maintained Keep with caution, but no reinforcements arrive to help the two dead mages that must have been standing guard.

"I think we should set up camp a little further away," Brelyna whispers. Istha nods, and they retreat to a small grouping of trees. The night is cold, but they can't risk a fire, and sleep back to back for warmth. The next day they are awoken by a cry of distress when someone discovers the bodies, and the assault begins in earnest.  
  
The thing about fighting against mages, Istha thinks to herself, is that they're very good at warding themselves against magical attacks. She quickly raises a ward with her right hand to deflect an enemy mage's ice spike, and as soon as it dissipates her bow is ready and the arrow flies true. _Protecting yourself from sparks and firebolts is all very well, but are you prepared to meet my arrows?_ She grins to herself as the last mage standing crumples to the ground, and his Atronach goes up in flames.

"Do you think there will be more inside?" Brelyna asks rather anxiously as she summons a quick healing spell on herself and eyes the bodies warily. Istha nods assuredly. Oh yes. "Okay... Well I guess I'm ready."  
  
The first door they try is impossible to open, so they creep into the keep through what looks like a cellar door. The stench alone almost makes them turn back, but Brelyna is set on the two proving themselves to the College, so they continue down the stairs and into a damp hallway. Water drips on the back of Istha's neck, but she cannot afford to get distracted. Her bow arm aches with the strain of holding an arrow at the ready as they step into a flooded room and try not to splash. Above them on a stone balcony, two mages are gambling at a table. A railing and the back of a chair blocks Istha's shot, and she creeps forward to try to get a better angle, only to trip on the carcass of a damned frostbite spider.

The mages stand, Istha suppresses a curse. Luckily, Breylna's quick and icy intervention puts an end to their enemies, and they continue on.

"Would you just look at all these ingredients!" Brelyna whispers as they poke their noses through the shelves and tables. "I wish we could carry it all back to the College..."

As it turns out, the two have bigger problems than the amount of loot they can carry on their backs. Deeper into the dungeons, they come face to face with glowing eyes and sly smiles. Istha freezes, sure that the four caged vampires that turn their heads towards the newcomers in eerie unison will sound the alarm, but the nearest woman, Altmer by the looks of her, merely raises a finger to her bloody lips and jerks her head to the left. Istha sneaks around the corner, her bow at the ready. A lone mages sits at a table facing the wall, counting coins out of a purse. A single arrow in the back of his neck kills him instantly.  
  
"Set us free, sister. We wish to make our captors bleed," the Altmer vampire says, walking forward and wrapping two gaunt hands around the bars of her cage.  
  
"How do we know you won't kill us?" Brelyna asks, lurking in the shadows with a flicker of a fire in one palm and a whisper of ice in the other.  
  
"How do we know you won't kill us?" another vampire echoes, chuckling softly.  
  
"Well," Brelyna stammers. "We're mages."  
  
"And we're vampires. Do we not deserve our revenge? Do we not deserve the blood more than you? The levers, child. Free us."  
  
Istha shrugs, and walks over to the four levers mounted on the wall beside the slumped mage. Brelyna hurries to her side and half-hides behind her as she jerks down the first lever. The Altmer vampire stalks out of her cage and other than a curt nod towards Istha, completely ignores her two perfectly edible saviours. One by one, the three other vampires follow suit.

Istha lets them charge ahead into the next room, creeping in cautiously only after the screams have stopped. Two more mages lie dead, along with two of the newly freed vampires. On the tables that line the side of the room, more dead bodies are unceremoniously stretched out. The stench of death and rot clogs Istha's nose, and she struggles not to vomit. Beside her, Brelyna chokes in agreement.

They do not linger for long, though Brelyna pauses beside a limp Khajiit body and tries to heal the poor cat. It quickly becomes apparent they have arrived far too late.

"I'm sorry," Brelyna says. "His tail was moving, I thought..."  
  
A howl of pain interrupts her. Istha darts forward into the next room to see the Altmer vampire under attack from two monstrous wolves. She falls to her knees as the snapping jaws tear her apart, and Istha's fire attack engulfs the three of them without prejudice. A young man sits crouched in another cage, hands over his face as he witnesses the carnage before him.  
  
"Brelyna!" he yelps when he catches sight of them. "Oh, am I ever glad to see you."  
  
"Orthorn?" the slender Dunmer asks, running over and grasping his hand through the bars. "I didn't think you'd still be alive. You are in so much trouble back at the College."  
  
"I know, I know. I was stupid. But if you set me free I swear I'll do anything to make up for it."  
  
"We're looking for the books you stole from Urag," Brelyna explains, and Istha wishes the two would hurry up. All four of the vampires they set free are dead now, now doubt greatly weakened by their long imprisonment, and now they have to fight their own way through the dungeons.  
  
"The books... Oh, yeah, the books... I can help you find them! We'll have to get past the Caller somehow, she's the one who has them..."  
  
Istha shoves Brelyna out of the way and pulls out a lockpick, ready to get the bumbling idiot out of the cage as long as they just get moving already.

"Just pull the middle lever," Orthorn cries, and with a long suffering sigh Istha turns and does that. "She doesn't talk much, does she? Cranky little thing," he mutters to Brelyna. Istha glares over her shoulder.  
  
"She's mute. The 'cranky little thing' as you call her, is really good at fire spells, so I'd watch your mouth," Brelyna explains. Istha pays them no attention, already heading up the stairs to another door. It turns out to be barred, and she breaks four lockpicks on it before Brelyna gently puts a hand on her shoulder and guides her to the side, where a narrow hallway winds downwards. The two Dunmer women are short enough that the tunnel-like corridor doesn't bother them, but Orthorn is forced to duck his head to avoid bumping into the low ceiling. Istha is more concerned with the roots growing between the stones, threatening to burst the tower's foundation apart and bring the damned thing down on their heads.  
  
Istha misses the majority of the next battle because she ends up tripping over a wooden railing and landing in a small alcove where a crazed vampire stares at her from within a suspended cage.  
  
"Go on," the vampire whispers, red eyes blazing. "Go kill them."  
  
The creepy encouragement proves unneeded, however, because Brelyna and Orthorn have already managed to dispatch the two mages that had been sitting down for a meal. They continue through the damp tunnel, moisture dripping from the ceiling onto their necks. Istha wonders how long her leather armour can go before the water ruins it, and decides she has more prominent worries, like the spreading crack in the wood of her Imperial bow. She hooks it over her shoulder grimly and relies on her flames for the skeletons that greet them in the next hall. Once they and their necromancer masters are dealt with, she fiddles with the lock on a chest hidden in the corner and almost cries out in delight when she discovers an Elven bow and quiver resting inside. Pristine and polished. Not nearly as good as the Ebony bow she brought with her from Morrowind only to lose to the Imperial ambush, but much better than the worn one she's been using since. She's so pleased with her new weapon that she bounds ahead of her companions. The next conjurer she comes across falls before he can raise the Frost Atronach he was so desperately trying to summon.

"Slow down Istha," Brelyna whispers, reaching for her elbow in an effort to hold her back. Istha can't slow, she's impatient with the manner in which Brelyna and Orthorn examine every interesting book and ingredient left behind by the dead mages. She wants to see the Caller already, see the horrid woman behind the tortures being committed in her dungeons, and introduce her to her new bow. In retrospect, it is exactly this impatience that reveals their presence to the rest of the tower, and nearly gets her killed.

She lays on the stone floor after it is over, gasping for air. She can see the the Caller's corpse on the ground not far away, still smoking slightly, and the scent of burned flesh nearly makes Istha gag. The ice spikes in her chest protest this movement, and she nearly passes out from the pain. She never knew numbness could hurt this much.

"Orthorn, start melting them," she hears Brelyna command, and manages to keep her eyes open long enough to see her mage companions grimly get to work on putting her broken body back together. "We're almost out of potions, how's your Restoration magic?"  
  
"Acceptable. I saw an alchemy table back there..."  
  
"No time."

Blissful unconsciousness comes not long afterward. Istha has just enough time to think to herself that she really needs to stop getting into these situations. She was not built for melee combat. She was born for the shadows. On another plane of existence, a matron looks on with a twinge of disappointment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a lot harder to get out, for some reason. I actually went through Fellglow Keep again, making little notes on my phone about what it looked like and who attacked, and that helped but the ending... ugh.  
> For those of you who may be worried that you'll have to sit through another rehash of Guild storylines, don't you worry. I won't be following them directly.  
> The next chapter is Larjan's, and I'm excited about getting that one done because the next two after that are going to break my heart. And hopefully, yours as well.  
> As always, thanks for reading, and my apologies for the longer wait.


	13. L - Facing Down the Wolf

Riverwood's thatched roofs and smiling faces are welcome sights after so many hours spent on horseback, staring ahead at a never-ending road. Larjan groans as he dismounts his steed and ties him and Lydia's mare to a wooden post by Sleeping Giant Inn. Dragonflies hum lazily in the warm evening air, and the sound of children's laughter nearby is so comforting that he nearly forgets he is here on business. He asks Lydia to wait a moment while he ducks into the Trader, and can't help but grin at the look on Lucan's face when he holds out the Golden Claw he's been carrying all this time.

“I never thought you would come back!” he gasps. Larjan presses his palms to his chest as though grievously injured by the lack of faith in his abilities, and Camilla pops up to see the resulting commotion. Lucan seems to want to parade Larjan's success through the streets of Riverwood, much to his distress, and it is only with a great deal of polite extraction that he manages to escape. The bag of gold coin he receives for his troubles in non-negotiable, but that at least Larjan acknowledges he needs.

“I have to go meet with Istha in the inn,” Larjan explains apologetically, ducking under Camilla's outstretched arm.

“That sour-faced Dark Elf you were travelling with the last time you passed through? Don't tell me she's back in town. She's got itchy fingers, her kind always do,” Lucan says, glowering at shadows as though expecting her to stand there. Larjan doesn't know how to respond to those accusations, so he pretends he didn't hear them. He berates himself later, but for the time being he simply wonders how they missed her arrival.

“You didn't see her arrive in Riverwood?” he asks. “She was about two days ahead of me, if she kept her pace constant.”

Camilla shakes her beautiful head and gives him only a puzzled look.

“We've had no visitors at all for a week. No one's travelling anymore with the threat of dragons over our heads, especially not to a place like Riverwood.”

Larjan ducks out of the Trader and heads to the inn, where Lydia has already ordered their dinner. He finds the innkeeper, a blonde woman with a stern face and a strangely predatory tread, and asks for the attic room. He knows he sounds ridiculous, knows the inn is a one-story building, but as long as Istha insists on playing these games with him, he has no choice but to play along. Delphine gives him a room on the left instead, and he sighs heavily as he unloads his gear and finally takes off his armour for the first time in what feels like forever.

The evening passes slowly, and Istha does not show. Larjan's patience is at an end when he finally goes to bed in the tiny room he has been provided with. Lydia remains strangely shy when it comes to sleeping arrangements, likely remembering his previous intimacy with Istha, and so he is alone in the room. He lays his sword on the floor next to him and falls asleep with an arm hanging over the edge of the bed, his fingertips brushing the cold metal the way they used to brush the mangy fur of a dog his family had when he was young before his father threw it out in one of his rages. Comfort, it seems, is found in unexpected things.

He wakes what seems like moments later with Delphine standing over him. He opens his mouth to yell but the older woman moves like quicksilver, and there is surprising strength in the hand she clamps over his mouth.

“You can trust me. I am the friend who left the note!” she hisses, her eyes flashing silver in the darkness. “Stop struggling. Come with me.”

 _Delphine? The innkeeper was the one who cleared out Ustengrav before them? But then... Where has Istha gone?_ The questions whir in his mind, and his confusion stills his movements. She releases him once he relaxes underneath her and quietly follows her out of his rented room. He sees her lips press into a thin line when she catches him slipping a dagger up his sleeve, but nothing more is said. He glances to the side where Lydia's door remains shut, but Delphine gestures furiously from a room across the hall and he follows reluctantly without waking his housecarl.

As the innkeeper reveals the staircase behind the false panel of her wardrobe, Larjan leans forward with strange excitement. He doesn't like the parts of his new life where skeletal Nords shoot arrows at him and bandits try to skewer him over a fire, but he holds a childish passion for moments like these – enigmas coming together to reveal larger plans. There is a small pang of pain in his chest that he cannot escape, however, when he enters the small room at the base of the stairs and there is no gray-skinned conspirator waiting for him with a scowl on her face and a glimmer in her eyes.

“They say the Greybeards have recognized you as Dragonborn.”

“Where's the Horn?” Larjan asks. Delphine's lips twitch into something resembling a wry smile, before she wipes it away as she pulls out the wooden object from her apron pocket. Larjan turns it over once in his hands before putting it away for safekeeping. He thought it would be bigger.

“You're not one easily dissuaded from tasks given to you, are you?”

“I do what needs to be done,” he replies, his voice slipping into a dutiful murmur. A parting gift from the Master, this willingness to follow orders. Delphine seems strangely disappointed with the answer he gives, and as she slowly reveals bits of information about herself – not enough to piece everything together, never enough for the big picture – he gets the feeling he is being tested. He tries not to react when she tells him her theories about dragons being brought back to life – feels her cold gaze trying to pry apart the surprise he feels as though looking for a deeper motive. It's not until she says that she thinks she can predict the rising of the next dragon that he decides he is willing to go along with her, for now.

_Kynesgrove. Nine days._

“We'll be ready,” Larjan promises.

“See to it,” Delphine answers, and with that he is dismissed. He returns to his room and sits on the bed, wide awake now. The Horn rests in his hands, which give it the occasional absentminded twirl in time with his thoughts. The night seems oppressive now, the quiet too full of expectation. He wonders if he could wake Lydia right now, and ride off with the moon still high in the sky, but he's not yet sure where he wants to go. He doesn't think they'd have enough time to deliver the Horn to High Hrothgar and still reach Kynesgrove in time, nor does he want to simply leave it in Klimmek's possession and hope the farmer remembers to take it up along with the next month's supplies.

May Oblivion take the duty he feels to the promises he makes, to the one he made to Istha. He is not as shocked by the fact that Delphine was behind Ustengrav all along as he thinks he should be, and knows that he overestimated Istha's willingness to cooperate. He wonders if she really did die on the Throat of the World, if he and Lydia might find her thin gray body frozen in the snow if only they look hard enough.

_You should consider joining the College of Winterhold if you're truly serious about magic._

Now that he knows she didn't even try to bother with the task the Graybeards set them, he wonders if she'd agree to come back with him at all, if she's alive. He doesn't think she would. She'd be happy at the College. Or so he thinks. He suddenly realizes she is a stranger, no less mysterious to him than a faceless figure watching from the shadows. He never knew her at all.

And so he knows that in the morning his feet will steer him to not to the Winterhold's cold tundra but to Whiterun, to the town that has embraced him as one of their own.

 

..................................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

They hear the dragon before they see it, and then its silhouette appears against blue sky. From this distance, its scales appear grey and Larjan can hide its entire reptilian body behind an outstretched thumb.

 _Dovahkiin_ , he hears it roar. _Veyn los hi, Dovahkiin? Dii in yah hi._

Lydia's face goes pale. Larjan remains calmly detached, thoughtfully staring at the dragon as it circles in the distance, seeking a prey it cannot find.

“My Thane, we don't stand a chance against a dragon. Not just two of us,” she says. Privately, he disagrees. He feels a tug in his bones, wants to Shout his brother - his _zeymah_ -down from his lofty place in the sky. But he thinks of the dragon waiting for him in Kynesgrove, and the thought of the patient creature slumbering under dried earth until he arrives brings him back to reality.

If he is really truthful to himself, he feels no anxiety about what he and Delphine plan to do. There is only a sense of impatience. He wants to slay the _dovah_ sleeping beneath Kynesgrove. He wants it. There is a tremble in the vertebrae of his spine that begs for a confrontation and a lust in his blood to see that of others spilled.

Inside him, Mirmulnir rears his great head and holds his breath. Lydia tugs at his elbow. He turns to face her, and the spell is broken.

“Let's go,” he says.

 

..................................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Even though Larjan's original plan was to pause in Whiterun only for a few hours before continuing to Kynesgrove, the sight of Dragonsreach rising up from its proud throne on the plains is simply too irresistible, and soon he and Lydia drift back to the streets and walls of home. _Just a few hours, to rest_ , he tells Lydia, but those few hours stretch out to the entire day spent at Jorrvaskr, catching up with his new Shield-Siblings and trying to absorb as much combat wisdom as he can from those willing to spare a moment.

Well, they are not quite Shield-Siblings. As Vilkas loves to remind him, he hasn't quite been initiated yet. His twin Farkas steps in with a bottle of ale for each of them and a suggestion. He has a job in mind; a trip to make to a place not far from here called Dustman's Cairn. As tempted as Larjan is to take up the offer and prove his honour to the Companions, he's exhausted after all the travelling he's been doing between Ivarstead and Morthal and Riverwood and Whiterun again, and they have to depart for Kynesgrove no later than four days from now.

In the end, it's the Dark Elves that convince him.

They find him wolfing down a dinner in the Bannered Mare with Lydia and brazenly sit down at the same table, putting their weapons on the table without a care in the world and fixing Larjan with the most scarlet gazes he's ever seen. Unlike Istha, who scorned heavy armour and weaponry, preferring her bow and magic, this man and woman are decked out in full Elven attire. _By the Nine, they're serious._

"Good evening, _sera_. We're looking for our sister, a young woman by the name of Rivnye, and we've been told someone similar to her description was seen in your company not long ago," the man says, and Larjan's blood runs cold as the woman pushes a torn and folded piece of paper his way. On it is a charcoal sketch of Istha from the shoulders up, with the words _'MISSING'_ printed at the top, and below that, a name Larjan has never seen. _Rivnye Larketh, of House Redoran._ She looks different, of course; dressed in fine clothes, a circlet resting below the braided crown on her head, her posture haughty and refined and all sorts of things he is not. But the face is the same face he knows, and seeing it again brings a sharp pang of pain to his chest. Beside him, Lydia sees the paper and jumps slightly in her seat.

The Elves watch him closely, and when Larjan looks up he realizes he does not like their demeanour, nor the blatant display of strength and moonstone. The man's red eyes are narrowed to two slits peering out from underneath a long head of hair, and his forehead is creased not with worry for his 'sister' but with anger. The woman is slightly more relaxed, but her fingers rest too closely to her sword and her gaze is too piercing. He doesn't know much about Dark Elf physiology but neither of them seem to bear any kind of familial resemblance to Istha. Larjan's mind is made. These are not people to be trusted.

Then again, Istha can't be trusted either. She is a stranger to him, an enigma he will never have the chance to figure out now that they have gone their separate ways.

It is too late to lie, not when they've asked around Whiterun and so many people have seen him in Istha's company. But there are facts he can keep to himself, if Lydia is smart enough to keep her mouth shut as well.

"Yes, I travelled with her briefly."  
  
"How briefly?"  
  
"We met at the border of Cyrodiil and Skyrim. Nothing like a dragon attack to bring people closer, you know. Travelled to Whiterun, then split up near Ivarstead about a week ago," Larjan says. The gears in his mind are spinning furiously as he stares at the paper in his hands. _The College of Winterhold._ The slope of her cheekbones. _What is in the opposite direction?_ Markarth. _The charcoal doesn't do her eyes justice._  
  
"Any idea where she was headed?" the woman butts in. Her voice is soft, disarmingly gentle. "Please, _sera_ , it is very important that we bring her back with us. She has cast our entire House into great worry."

Larjan sighs.

"Markarth, most likely," he says, his mental map picking a city as far from Istha's College as possible. The Elves both wrinkle their noses. They stand, apparently done with him.  
  
"You'd tell us if you saw our sister," the man says, taking his battleaxe and sheathing it on his back. Larjan eyes it warily. "Wouldn't you?"  
  
"If I believed it was in her best interests."  
  
The man sneers, and the woman gently steers him away with a slender gray hand on his arm.  
  
"Thank you, _sera_ ," she says to Larjan as she reaches for the paper sketch he is still holding. He draws it closer to him, and for a moment the words are on the tip of his tongue. Can I keep it? But there is no way for him to ask that question without embarrassment, without explaining that in just a few weeks that damned Elf has settled herself into his mind and won't leave. The moment passes, and the woman takes the sketch back and rolls it up. Larjan watches her tuck the scroll into her pack and wishes momentarily that he knew how to pick pockets.  
  
"What was that all about?" Lydia whispers when the Elves depart from the tavern.  
  
"I don't know," Larjan says truthfully. "But first thing tomorrow morning, I'm taking Farkas up on his offer and getting out of Whiterun. I don't think they believed me, and I don't trust them."

"Oh, thank the Divines," Lydia says, slumping in relief. "I was hoping that wasn't just me. Do you think Istha... or, uh, what did they say her name was? Riv... Will she be okay?"  
  
Larjan shrugs, and leaves a few gold coins on the table for their meal. He walks Lydia back to Dragonsreach, where she sleeps in the barracks with the rest of Whiterun's guards, and returns to his inn. He stands by the fire for a minute, contemplative, then makes his way over to the counter. He spends the next two hours getting as drunk as he possibly can. When he is finally shooed away, he stumbles up the stairs to a room he just paid for, too dizzy to make it to his bunk in Jorrvaskr. Sleep comes quickly and without the incessant whisper of dreams and _dovah_ that call him into the sky - _lok_ \- by all the names he has ever gone by in his life and past ones.

..................................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Larjan was raised to fear silence. Sometimes he still resents his family for that fear. Even in adulthood, the need to talk, the need to fill empty space with words is a need that he hasn't yet managed to wean himself off of. Despite this, he finds that he does not quite mind Farkas' quiet nature. The burly Companion is a man of few words. He tells Larjan that his brother is the smart one, and leaves it at that. They make a few comments to each other on the trip, pointing out a fox slinking through the tall grass, trampled earth where mammoths migrate and they need to be aware of the threat of giants, simple things like that.

Larjan never even imagines that a trip that starts off so innocently can descend into the carnage that awaits them in Dustman's Cairn. Pulling the lever was a stupid choice of course, but there was no other way out of the dead end chamber they found themselves in. Larjan groans to himself as a gate descends from the ceiling and thuds into place behind him. He pulls the lever in the other direction, only to have it come apart in his hand.

"Now look what you've gotten yourself into," Farkas says with a chuckle. Larjan is glad he is not too upset, though he's still mortified that he's gone and done something so incredibly imbecilic on a trip he was supposed to prove his worth on. "Hold on, there has to be another lever somewhere."  
  
But before the Companion can move to search it out, voices shout from the deeper refuges of the cairn. Armour clangs against itself, weapons scrape walls and floors that remained untouched except for draugr for so many generations. Farkas presses his back to the bars that separate him and Larjan, and growls - actually growls like some kind of wild beast. Larjan has already put his sword away, knowing it will do him no good here, and tries to will the scraps of magical energy in him into a fire he can channel through the gate's bars. A pathetic flame flickers in his joined palms and extinguishes. _Not enough air._

"Farkas," he says desperately. "Run."  
  
The other man gives no sign that he has heard him as a group of bandits file into the chamber and surround Farkas, descending like a pack of wolves on a man who is still growling as wisps of black smoke twist around his body and transform him into something eerily familiar.

Larjan looks away as Farkas massacres the bandits, unable to bear the sight that goes along with the sounds of ripping flesh and snapped bone. Armour doesn't stop a werewolf's claws; a lesson he knows well. The gate opens, an invitation into the killing grounds where the torn apart bandits lie in their last rest. Larjan takes his sword out in front of him, but holds it loosely and doesn't move from the back of the alcove. Farkas appears in the doorway, human again and scarcely injured.

"I hope I didn't scare you," he says sombrely, in that gravelly voice of his.  
  
"I want to die above ground," Larjan answers. "With the wind in my hair and soft grass under my hands."  
  
"Me too," Farkas grunts. They remain frozen in their places, hunter and hunted reaching an impasse.  
  
"The last werewolf I met tried to kill my mother and I. I stopped him, but he broke my little sister's neck before he remembered who he was," Larjan says.  
  
" _Silvereyes_ ," Farkas says, his eyes widening ever so slightly. Larjan cannot help but suppress a sad smile. For a man who is content in his label as the dumber twin, he caught on far faster than anyone else.

"Are all the Companions werewolves?" Larjan asks. There is another question woven within the words of that one, a worry that wants to know whether they will make him one as well.  
  
"Just the Circle," Farkas says quietly. "I'm not going to hurt you."  
  
"I'd stab you if you tried," Larjan says, and he moves forward carefully. He does not hold his greatsword out as though to swing it at him, but it remains in front of his body nonetheless. He pretends he doesn't see the hurt in Farkas' eyes as they clear out the rest of the Cairn - the bandits belong to a group called the Silver Hand, and Farkas clearly is uneasy at the thought of having them so close to Whiterun. He avoids turning his back on Farkas. It's not that he doesn't trust the man - the man is all right His father was all right too. It's the wolf that's the problem.   
  
Larjan doesn't expect there to be another Word Wall in the cairn, doesn't think to warn the Companion about his weakness. The searing carving pulls him closer like a moth drawn to an inevitable flame, and he collapses to all fours as it assaults his mind. In the corner of his vision, he sees draugr break off from the swarm now attacking Farkas, and start towards him. Raised weapons, still as sharp as the day they were crafted.

The ancient axe comes down, and Larjan sees in his mind's eye the headsman's axe. The draugr falls apart, Farkas' heavy weight thrust behind each swing of his sword. Larjan struggles to his feet and sways as he lifts his own sword against the oncoming draugr. The _Dovahkiin_ has cheated death once again. He replays the moment in his mind as he stands, shoulder-to-shoulder, with his Shield-Siblings behind Jorrvaskr.

"I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us."

Helgen. Dustman's Cairn. They are one and the same.

"Would you raise your shield in his defense?"  
  
He is living on borrowed time, kept alive in this world purely by coincidences. His mother's faith. Istha. Alduin's return.

"I would stand at his back that the world might never overtake us."

He should have died four years ago, should have been the one run through with a sword in the desperate struggle for control between him and the Silvereye he was named for.

"And would you raise your sword for him?"

His father. His father the husband of his mother, his father the teacher of his siblings, his father who ruined everything with his beast blood.

"It stands ready to meet the blood of his foes."

If only it were that easy to vanquish the demons that still haunt him. They are no longer mortal, and would only laugh at mortal weapons.

"And would you raise a mug in his name?"

He is Dragonborn, but he is no hero, no one who has done anything work singing about.

"I would lead the song of triumph, as our mead hall revelled in his stories."

He is still the young man fresh out of childhood who fled to Cyrodiil to escape his father's ghost and the blood on his hands he couldn't wash off.

"Then the judgement of this circle is complete."

 _And so is his own._ He receives pats on the back, has bottles of alcohol pushed into his numb fingers. They laugh at his shock, thinking he is simply astounded that he has been accepted into what everyone thinks is an honourable and valiant family. He knows better. He has lived in the werewolf's house before, has seen the darker gleam to those silvery eyes that no one outside of the family did. Farkas watches him silently from across the table, but says nothing.

Larjan wants to Shout it all away, wants to _Fus_ until nothing remains but splintered wood and empty shells. In the Bannered Mare, the two Elves pour over maps and bounties, tracking a crimson path from Morrowind to Cyrodiil to Skyrim.

He and Lydia leave Whiterun at dawn. Kynesgrove's dragon is already awake when they arrive.

 

..................................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

The door opens. The woman peers out nervously, doesn't seem to like what she sees. A smart woman, then. Most people with family in the service of the Stormcloaks wouldn't appreciate their presence.

"May we come in?" the man asks politely, gesturing to himself and his hooded companion. The woman shakes her head and averts her light-coloured eyes.

"I'm sorry, I'm not open to guests. Please, Whiterun is not too far from here if you want company."

She tries to close the door. His hand shoots out and a single flicker of lightning into her forehead stops that silly gesture of defiance. She crumples. Not dead, but just close enough. There's not much time left. They lay her body on the bed in the corner of the shack, arms tossed haphazardly over her torso as if to protect herself from the intruders. The man pokes around the shack, finds nothing of value. No letters. No evidence. The only thing of mild interest is the alchemy table in the corner - not every isolated farmer can treat themselves to such a device.

"And now?" the man's companion asks.  
  
"We wait," he replies, settling comfortably into one of the chairs at her rickety table and opening one of the bottles of mead he finds in her cupboard. He takes a sip and grimaces. He will never understand Nords, the blasted creatures.

"Is she sure this will be any good in the end?" the companion asks in a rather bored voice. On the bed, the woman stirs feebly. The companion lazily raises his arm towards her, not even turning to look where he aims. She falls limp as another tiny bolt of lightning jerks her movements to a standstill.

"Oh," the first hooded man says. "A little visit is inevitable. And when he comes, we will be ready."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the slow reveal of Istha and Larjan's pasts isn't too convoluted and terrible. The balance is tricky to find.  
> To my anonymous commenter, Skjor+Dykeman, I'm glad you like Larjan - hopefully this chapter satisfied you a little. He's a dear, he really is.  
> My player character is married to Farkas, and I think he's utterly fabulous, so it was difficult writing him without the affection I usually see him with. Heh. If anyone thinks he was strangely written, that's why.  
> As always, the support this story has been getting is... Amazing. I'm in awe. I'm also terrified because now I have to finish the story. Updates will be a little rarer because I no longer have chapters already written up, but I do have them planned out for the rest of this part of the series, so the delay shouldn't be longer than an extra day or two for each chapter.


	14. I - A Matter of Dez, As They Call It

Istha is first aware of warmth on her gray cheeks, akin to lying by a firepit on a cold winter's day. The unnatural chill in Skyrim has prevented her from feeling very much warmth up until now, and she blinks open her eyes. She shuts them again quickly, groaning as the sun sears its silhouette into her eyes in a myriad of colours.

"Istha! You're finally awake?"

She turns her head to see Brelyna drop to her knees at her side, beaming. Istha feels personally offended by the amount of sheer happiness radiating out of her fellow College student, and groans again. At least that other one - Orthorn, was he called? - is gone. For good, hopefully. He grated on her nerves.

"We're outside the keep. It's okay, you don't have to get up yet. Actually, I wouldn't recommend it at all. Your wound still hasn't healed at all... but I'm sure it will be soon!" Brelyna says, her smile starting to become a little bit forced. Istha looks at her, shielding her face from the bright sunlight with her forearm. Tears spring to Brelyna's eyes, and the smiles vanishes. Istha tries to sit up, and is overwhelmed with the sudden pain that flares up in her hip.  
  
"I tried to heal it, but nothing I've been doing seems to stick for more than a few minutes," Brelyna cries. "I figured it must be some kind of poison, so I started collecting ingredients for an antidote, but when I went back to the alchemy lab in the keep I found it broken in half by rubble from the spell you cast that made the entire keep come down on our heads..."  
  
Brelyna tearfully tries to explain her plight, the frenzied words swirling around Istha's head and dizzying her. She does not understand what the other Dunmer girl is trying to say until her trembling hands support her back as she sits up enough to see the place on her hip where her leather armour has disintegrated, and beneath it, the flesh that almost followed suit.

On top of the faint shimmer that is all that remains of the burns she gained in Windhelm's Gray Quarter, a deep cut oozes blood so dark it is almost black, and a strange green glow emanates from the pus that has gathered in the wound. Istha smells rotting flesh, no different from that of a strip of rabbit left out in the sun too long, and retches to the side. Her stomach is empty, and the violent convulsions that shake her abdomen bring up nothing but leave her feeling tired and weak all the same. Brelyna hovers nervously nearby as she closes her eyes and remembers the glint of metal that slipped out of the Caller's blue robes as Istha bore down on her with a flame cloak spell, remembers the last desperate look in the woman's eyes as she claimed her final victory before her death. A poisoned dagger.

Istha is sick of injuries. Skyrim is ripe with them. She breathes through her mouth and wishes she could go home and pretend that she does not know that the family she'd return to is filled with warm-eyed and sweet-tongued liars.

She raises her palm over her hip and tries to call her healing powers. _Revival_ , she thinks. _Happy thoughts._ The golden glow flickers between her fingers and her body and extinguishes. Brelyna suppresses a sob, shoulders shaking, and Istha makes a writing motion with the last bit of strength she has remaining in her fingers. Her Dunmer classmate retrieves the scroll of paper and the bit of charcoal Istha has been using to communicate in the last few weeks.

 _'MAP.'_ she writes. The rumpled and yellowed scroll she seeks is placed in her trembling hands. She unfurls it and lays it out in her lap, avoiding its brush with her infected skin. Her bony fingertips find Valtheim Towers and travel North. A circle of charcoal.

"There's nothing there," Brelyna says miserably, peering over Istha at the map. Istha nods stubbornly. _'YES THERE IS.'_  
  
"Are you sure?" she insists. More nods. "I don't know, Istha. It doesn't look too far, but I'm not sure you can walk."  
  
 _'I MUST.'_

At her worried companion's insistence Istha manages to down a stamina potion to regain some of her strength, but the healing potion she tries to swallow afterwards only comes back up, burning her throat. Still, they press on, aware of a silently ticking clock. Travel is misery. Istha falls constantly, too heavy for Brelyna to support entirely. She wonders if Larjan would carry her if he was here instead, and thinks he would. He is a good man. _Too good._ People like that die quickly. Soft, like he said.  
  
"Why does your friend live in the middle of nowhere?" Brelyna asks, grunting as she bears most of Istha's weight on a particularly steep slope. Istha doesn't know.

She is half-dead when they make it to the place where she remembers Kirstte's home being.

Something is wrong, but her mind is addled by poison and pain and can't put together the drawn windows and the shut door and the wilting garden that has not been attended in days. The Altmer man bursts out before they've gotten within ten paces of the front door, lightning charging between his raised palms. Brelyna lets go of Istha and throws up a ward to protect them as the ball of charge comes hurtling their way.

_Thalmor._

Istha collapses to the ground, sparse grass crinkling under her weight. She feels the familiar tingle of an oakflesh spell creeping up her skin and mentally thanks Brelyna. But in the end, regardless of how valiantly she stands between Istha and the Altmer mages, her talent and hard work at the College is not enough. They are barely apprentices, up against Thalmor agents who have been doing this for their entire lives. The first man that runs through the door is brought down only by the element of surprise, but another quickly takes his place when he falls. Istha struggles to do something, to summon an Atronach to replace Brelyna's fallen one, anything! But her reserves of magical energy are scattered and she grasps at blankness.

Brelyna cries out as an ice spike makes it past the Oakflesh impales itself through her abdomen. The weak ward Istha manages to throw up in front of them barely deflects the next few ones. The Thalmor stalks forward, a sadistic smirk visible under the hood that covers his face. He holds lightning captive in his palms, ready to throw forward but reined back for the moment. Istha holds her breath as he stops in front of Brelyna's hunched body, and raises his spell-charged hands. She cannot stand by. She cannot let Brelyna die.

Her fingers shake with fever, and even if she could aim in this state Brelyna took all her arrows along with most of the weight she was carrying. Her magic has deserted her in the face of the poison. The only weapon that remains stirs deep inside Istha. Red eyes blink open and focus on the danger facing them.

 _Let me out_ , the trapped _dovah_ soul whispers. _Let me push._

She is too weak to rein the dragon back into the safety of her mind. The force rips from her throat before she can even think to disagree with it. _Fus._ The Thalmor man flies backward as though butted by a giant dragon head. He is airborne for the last second of his life, before his temporary flight comes to a very permanent halt. The crack of his neck as his body slams against the wall of Kirstte's shack echoes in the clearing. There is the sound of Brelyna gasping for air as she pulls the ice spike out of herself and quickly heals the source of the thin stream of dark blood that results. Istha stands, shakily, her weight supported by her good leg.

"You..." Brelyna stutters. "You utter imbecile! You let me think you were mute this entire time!"  
  
Istha is silent as her Dunmer companion slowly pulls herself up to her full height. She is a little taller than Istha and takes advantage of this fact as she strides forward and glares at her fellow apprentice.

"And then it turns out you can shout like... like..." Brelyna trails off. "Dragonborn."  
  
Istha blinks in surprise. She reaches for the pack on Brelyna's pack, wanting her scroll and charcoal, but the other girl catches on too quickly.  
  
"Oh no. If you have something to say, you can say it out loud. I'm not going to be treated like a fool any longer," she scolds. Istha sways back and forth. She opens her mouth to speak, and closes it. Once more, helplessly, and then she promptly collapses on the ground.

When she comes to again, she is lying inside the shack. The ceiling is far away, and as she turns her head to the side she feels soft fur underneath her cheek. Her bedroll, then. The bed is beside her, and occupied by a limp form she knows belongs to Kirstte. Or rather, what's left of Kirstte. In the corner of the shack, Brelyna grinds some kind of poultice. The alchemy lab steams slightly, and Istha hopes that is a good sign. She sits up gingerly, but the pain in her hip has finally receded to a dull throb. Her leather armour has been mostly stripped off of her, leaving her in her undertunic, and the injured hip lies exposed to the air. The pus is gone, as is some of the swelling. Thin streaks of red still zigzag out from the knife slash, but the wound already looks much better.

A groan from the side turns Istha's attention to Kirstte. She shifts her weight and drags herself closer to the bed - slowly, and painfully. The Nord woman is restless, not quite asleep and not quite awake but something uncomfortably in between. Her head turns, and Istha's stomach clenches up at the sight of the other side of the woman's face. Larjan's mother had not been an unattractive woman, but now...

 _A combination of fire and lightning spells_ , she supposes. _Small but repeated doses._ The flesh is melted together all wrong, like a candle hardening into a dripped mess after the warmth of the flame is taken away. Kirstte groans again, and Istha does not know what she will tell Larjan.

"She was awake earlier," Brelyna comments. "Confused, but she gave me a list of ingredients to put together to heal you. I wasn't sure if I should listen, given the condition she's in, but the potion came together so well, and your cut is looking better already... She fell asleep while I was collecting ingredients, and I haven't been able to wake her since."

Istha nods curtly, her grey fingers unconsciously reaching for Kirstte's and curling around them protectively. The woman's skin is cold and clammy, but an unnatural heat radiates from the parts of her body that have been affected by the Thalmor. Istha wonders what this means for Larjan. _Forget Larjan!_ her mind tells her. _Are they going to be hunting you down too?_ She's not sure. Aside from the Greybeards and Windhelm's court, no one knows her burden. And as unpleasant as Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak is, she doesn't think he'd rat her out to the Thalmor. Not if he wants to use her first.

Still, the presence of the Altmer organization at Larjan's childhood home is worrying. She knows Kirstte is going to die, accepts the sombre knowledge and moves on. The Nord woman will go to Sovengarde soon, to that final home the people of Skyrim sing about when the borealis lights the night sky. But Istha and Larjan still have to deal with this world, and if the Thalmor are out for blood...

"I think you owe me an explanation," Brelyna says softly as she comes forward with the poultice in a bowl. Istha drops Kirstte's hand and turns to face her squarely. She takes a moment to recollect her thoughts, and starts from the beginning. From Morrowind. Her voice is scratchy and hoarse, as though her vocal chords have awoken from a deep slumber and would like nothing more than to go back to sleep for another few hundred years. Brelyna does not interrupt, not even when her forehead furrows in the middle and her ears twitch with nervousness as Istha describes several near-death experiences. When she finally finishes, reaching the present, Brelyna seems to have come to a decision.

"You must return to the Graybeards," she says resolutely.  
  
"Absolutely not," Istha answers, her voice as hard as steel. But Brelyna persists.

"Skyrim needs you," she says. "Onmund's told me all about the legends. There are prophecies, Istha, you can't run away from prophecies. Fate is inevitable, and your fate is to defeat the World-Eater."  
  
Istha shakes her head and tries to turn away. Brelyna is having none of that. For such a soft-spoken and gentle individual, she's very tough when she needs to be.

"Skyrim has Larjan," she says. "Larjan is the Dragonborn. I'm... I'm an extra. I don't know where I come from or who I am or why."  
  
Brelyna simply reaches out and taps her throat.

"Fate is fickle, Istha, but not that fickle. Nothing is coincidence. The wheels are turning, and if I remember Onmund's legends correctly, there isn't much time left. You need to return to the Graybeards, and make them see reason," she insists.  
  
In the end, Istha relents. They remain in Kirstte's shack for two more days, giving Istha time to regain her strength and trying in vain to care for the Nord woman's extensive injuries. She cries in her sleep, often mentioning names. Larjan's missing family, Istha supposes. Her heart hurts every time his name slips from between the burned and cracked lips, until eventually Kirstte makes no more sounds. Brelyna helps her carry the body over to the pile of rocks on the terrace behind the house, where Larjan's father is buried. Neither of them knows how Nord burials work, but they pile rocks over the shallow grave all the same, and awkwardly thank the dead woman for her hospitality.  _I'm sorry_ , Istha thinks. _I promised I'd talk to him and make him return to you, but instead I left him and now you're dead._ She feels a vague sense of regret, and then guilt when she realizes she should feel more, but her grief for Kirstte's passing is based mostly on the pity she feels towards Larjan. What will he think, weeks from now, when he stumbles onto his home only to find it cold and empty?

She does not want to go to High Hrothgar, but they cannot remain in Kirstte's shack for much longer, not when the Thalmor already know its location. Brelyna remains unyielding. She kisses Istha's cheeks when they part, a faint blush on her ashen face.

"You'll send me letters, won't you?" she asks. Istha sighs, and relents with a nod. She watches Brelyna's slender form disappear over the rocks, carrying Urag's books back to the College, and sets off in the opposite direction. The bandits that have just moved into Valtheim Towers throw her a housewarming party of sorts when she strides onto their bridge, and she responds by using them as target practice for the fireballs she learned to cast from Faralda.  
  
She bypasses Ivarstead, choosing instead to climb the mountain with her hands and knees on an alternate route until she feels she is far enough from the town to join the main path. There are pilgrims meditating along the way, but they are lost in their mental peace and leave Istha alone, so she leaves them alone. She limps to High Hrothgar's towering doors and hesitates for the first time since departing Brelyna's side. She's had two days to think about what she wants to say, but nothing seems good enough, and she's afraid her voice will only fail her again. Istha does not deal well with failure. Her hand lingers above the knocker on the door, close but not touching. Before she can make a decision, it opens. One of the Graybeards steps aside, holding the heavy door open. He bows without saying a word, and she steps in. The other three monks descend from alcoves and small steps, meeting her in the foyer.

"Welcome. We have been expecting you," Arngeir says, bowing his head slightly. Istha is stunned. This is not the reception she was mentally preparing herself at all. Have the monks finally gone off their rockers for good? Her puzzled look must ask the question for her, because the monk explains something for once.  
  
"Our grandmaster was displeased with us for sending you away so quickly. We want to... apologize... for our hastiness. It was not right of us to demand the trial of Jurgen Windcaller."  
  
Istha fidgets.  
  
"I see you have already learned the value of silence. Very well. There is a room ready for you down this hall. Tomorrow we shall begin teaching you the Way of the Voice."  
  
With that she is dismissed. No further explanation, no haughty demands for the Horn she clearly doesn't have. She enters her chambers with some trepidation, and is delighted to find a warm bath prepared for her. She doesn't know how the Graybeards knew she was coming, but if this is the welcome she receives, she won't complain. She undresses completely for the first time in what feels like forever, peeling off garments that have been shredded by arrows and sword slashes and magical spells, and washes a lifetime of grime off her gray skin. The evening remains for her to do as she pleases, so she locates a looking-glass hidden behind the simple wooden bed - a luxury the monks probably placed there for her, as she can't imagine they allow themselves such a thing, and scrutinizes her appearance.

She has always been thin, a result of many years of adventuring outdoors, but Skyrim has taken further weight off her bones. She is not starved, not nearly, but her ribs and collarbones are more prominent than she would like them to be, and her eyes stare out of a gaunt face. She mixes together her familiar gold facepaint, and once the flames have been reignited on the canvas of her cheeks she feels much better. Closer to a proper Telvanni battlemage instead of a starved runaway. Her nimble fingers drag through her wet hair, combing out tangles that are more trouble than they're worth. She idly imagines herself cutting the extra hair, throwing it out. Long hair is a disadvantage in battle because it can so easily be grabbed and used to expose your throat to a blade, but she isn't an idiot. She doesn't charge into conflicts. She has her spells, and she has her new elven bow. So the hair remains for now, a casualty of her feminine upbringing.

The Graybeards eat their meals alone, and so she does as well. Finally fed and clean, she finds no more reason to remain awake. Sleep comes quickly to her exhausted body.

 

.............................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Larjan arrives on her third day of mediation with the Graybeards. She is walking in the hallways, her feet bare so she can feel the cold of the mountain seep through her skin. At first she hated the feeling, but she quickly found that the numbness it brings helps her focus her mind the way the Graybeards are trying to teach her. She is holding a book, idly turning pages as she paces the hallway and looking for an excerpt she read last night before bed.

It is the _Book of the Dragonborn_ , and Istha is trying to reveal her fate. She finds the passage right as the doors to High Hrothgar open. She freezes in place, elven ears twitching as Arngeir steps forward to greet the newcomer. With the stone wall between her and the foyer, she cannot see the visitor, but her ears paint the picture for her. Just one person, by the footsteps. Heavy, leaden with armour and supplies more extensive than hers. She hears Larjan's greeting and soft murmur of appreciation at the respite from the cold outside, and flees outside to the courtyard. In retrospect she should have thought to put some shoes on at the very least. All she is wearing is a simple blue robe from the College and her fur cloak. She shivers at the chill that greets her and clutches her book closer to her chest, but she cannot return to High Hrothgar while the one person she does not want to see again remains there.

There is a gate at the far side of the courtyard, past the ones where she practiced her Whirlwind Sprint so long ago. Istha heads towards it now, bare feet crunching in the snow. The cold is unbearable. She does not know where the gate leads, only that it is away from High Hrothgar and that is what she needs right now. She cannot face Larjan. Her thoughts are snowflakes, and she is so blinded by the blizzard in her mind that she does not see the one she walks into. The violent winds swirling in the opening of the gate throw her backwards into the snow, and she opens her mouth in a silent scream as pain stabs through her temples.

 _What do you seek, tiidkiir? What brings your thoughts to intrude my strunmah... My mountain?_  
  
The words rumble in her mind, making her feel torn open and exposed. What is this voice burrowing into her mind and speaking? How does she answer it? How does she politely tell it to take itself and dig a hole to Oblivion?

_Drem. In good time. If you wish to speak to me, kiir, you must clear the skies._

She yelps as the stone pavilion underneath her begins to glow with carvings in the _dovah_ language. She scampers to her feet, once again grabbing the book and holding it close as the light from the three words dims to something almost bearable to look at.

_Lok Vah Koor._

The dragon she killed on the Seven Thousand Steps does not know this Shout, and shifts restlessly in her mind. Even without a _dovah's_ memory to anchor the Words to her, she understands them, feels them build in her lungs as she turns to face the swirling vortex of snow beyond the gate.

_Lok! Vah! Koor!_

The way opens.

She conjures a flame Atronach and it walks beside her up the mountain, its glowing embers of eyes scanning the rocks on either side for danger to its master. There is none, save for a single goat that seems mildly traumatized when she Shouts the weather away from it. Eventually she and her Atronach reach the crest of the mountain - the Throat of the World. A gray dragon, far more ancient than any of the ones Istha has seen up until now, sits perched on a Word Wall that is almost buried in snow. Istha halts abruptly at the sight of him. Her feet burn in protest. The dragon swings its mighty head in her direction. Its eyes spark with interest, but it doesn't try to eat her for some reason.

" _Drem Yol Lok._ Greetings, _tiidkiir_. I am Paarthurnax."

She has heard that name before. When the Graybeards mentioned their Grandmaster, a speaker of the _Thu'um_ who lived at the top of the mountain in isolation.

"You're a dragon," Istha whispers, momentarily forgetting her vow of silence in her shock. The dragon makes a rumbling sound in its throat, like laughter.

"I am as my father Akatosh made me, as are you. Come closer, _tiidkiir_ , you are cold," the dragon growls. Istha does not want to go anywhere near a dragon without any of her armour or her bow, but his command is impossible to resist.

"You're the one who taught me the Clear Skies shout," Istha says.

The dragon unfurls his wings as she approaches and hops off his perch on the Word Wall, drawing in his wings and lowering his spiked head to her level.

" _Drem._ Patience. There are formalities that must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the _dov_. By long tradition, the elder speaks first. Hear my _Thu'um!_ Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are _Dovahkiin!_ "

She stumbles backwards as he turns towards the Word Wall and Shouts at it. A glowing dragon word appears on the smooth, uncarved surface as dragonfire engulfs it. Istha feels its pull just like the previous few Shouts she has learned, but she tries to resist. She does not want to be Dragonborn, does not want this word to violate her mind simply because a Divine or Daedra above said it would be so.

"The Word calls you. Go to it," Paarthurnax commands as she tries to resist the involuntary steps she takes forward, his deepset eyes smouldering with the reflection of dragonfire. "A gift, _Dovahkiin. Yol._ Understand Fire as the dov do. This will warm you from the _koreid_ , the inside. Now, show me what you can do. Greet me not as mortal, but as _dovah!_ "

The word burns in her mind and in her veins, the dragon that sleeps in her soul rousing and sparking an inferno in her with glee, but her lips remain firmly pressed together. She shakes her head, and Paarthurnax growls. The _dov_ within her unfurls its wide leathery wings and strains against her skin. _Inferno_ , it whispers to her. _You love the fire, I love the fire. Let it burn._ She no longer feels the cold. Snow melts under her bare feet as the heat builds inside.

The Shout pries open her mouth and tumbles out without her consent, and as a stream of fire engulfs Paarthurnax she tries to take it back with a horrified gasp. She has just breathed fire at the draconian Grandmaster of the Graybeards. If that doesn't get her a one way ticket to his stomach, she doesn't know what will. But to her surprise he merely chuckles.

"Aaah... yes! _Sossedov los mul._ The dragonblood runs strong in you. It is long since I had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind... And yet you deny me. Are you not _dov_ enough? I have seen you in the Time-Wound, the _Tiid Ahraan_. You are not from this world," he says. Istha had no idea what his words mean, but _tiid ahraan_ cuts her open, and as she hears the phrase a face suddenly leaps to mind, a face she has never seen. Gray and kind. Motherly.

"What is that?" she asks. " _Tiid Ahraan._ What do you mean?"

The elderly dragon merely extends his neck and pushes her shoulder with his muzzle, turning her around. In front of her the world suddenly ripples, and she is struck by a strong sense of vertigo as everything seems to tilt in every which way.

" _Drem._ Three great heroes, the first of mortal _dovah_ speech. Tongues. This is where they ripped Alduin from _tiid_ , from the fabric of time. It still has not healed, and never will. I have been here since, waiting for my _zeymah._ The _Tiid Ahraan_ is every moment of all times. In it, I have seen your face span centuries."

"Why would I..." Istha asks, turning back to look at the ancient dragon. He merely continues pushing her forward.

"I am only a _dovah_ , same as you. I do not know the _dez_ of all things, I merely observe. Meditate in the _Ahraan, tiidkiir_ , the way the Graybeards have been teaching you. _Drem Yol Lok_."

Istha hesitates, looking back at Paarthurnax's scaled head.

"The other Dragonborn..." she trails off.

"We will _tinvaak_ about that after you have seen the tides," Paarthurnax answers sternly, and pushes her forward with his head so forcefully that she barely keeps her balance. With the Graybeards she has always needed a Shout in mind to focus on, and so as she sits down crosslegged in the snow with the world ripping dizzily around her, she imagines she is burning.

_Yol._

The ripples change, becoming at once increasingly more chaotic and yet, more ordered to her eye. There are flashes of colour she sees that surely do not belong on the mountain top - reds and greens and golds. A young Bosmer boy dressed in rags, trembling as he holds onto his mother's hand. A book placed in front of him, its pages opened wide and blank. He shakes his head like the sight of it pains him, and the mother starts to cry.  _Yol._ A man in a golden robe and a tentacled mask, throwing his hands in the air as two dragons take off in front of him. His face is not visible behind the polished metal but she imagines it to be triumphful.  _Yol._ A Redguard girl in her early teens. The same blank book placed in front of her. An Orsimer girl with a chipped tusk strokes the pages, confusion evident in the timid hand. A Nord boy, violently green eyes. An Argonian child whose gender she cannot discern puts its face in clawed hands and begins to shake with quiet sobs. A young Imperial woman, sad resignation in her bowed head.  _Yol._

The world is a map of light behind her closed eyelids, lit up by the glowing threads of every path traveled by every individual that has ever had a fate. The Time-Wound is a knot at the center of the world, brighter than the sun. Istha picks a string of light that seems brighter than the rest and follows it, and jerks awake as it leads her to another unexpected tangle far in the East. She blinks, and _yol_ fades. She is suddenly aware that hours have passed. The sky is dark except for the shimmer of borealis, her muscles are sore everywhere from a strain she didn't know she was feeling, and she is starving. The snow she had been sitting in before has all melted away, and she sits on a small circle of bare rock.

"Do you understand?"

Paarthurnax's voice is too loud after several hours of being lost in her own mind, and she winces before she can gather her own thoughts enough to respond.

"I think I might. But I need to see more clearly."  
  
Paarthurnax rumbles deep in his throat, his talons clicking against bits of frozen ice in the snow as he turns to face Northeast.  
  
" _Drem._ You are running ahead of yourself. In good time, you will see all the currents of time with an Elder Scroll."

"An Elder Scroll? What's that?"

"Forget that which I spoke too soon. Its is not important yet. For now, _kiir_ , you shiver. Return to the Graybeards."

Istha notices suddenly that she is getting colder, goosebumps prickling her skin as the fever brought on by her meditation fades. Still, she shakes her head adamantly.

"I can't go back yet," she says. Paarthurnax growls, evidently displeased with her blatant refusal. "Lar- The other Dragonborn is here. That's why I tried to go through your gate."

"What do you run from? You are _dovah_ , the way he is. You will have to face him, now or at the end of the world. It is better to do it without Alduin breathing fire down your tail," Paarthurnax admonishea, snorting a liberal amount of steam out of his nostrils as he shakes his great head slightly.

"What if I don't?" Istha challenges, clutching her book close. "What if I just go back to Morrowind on the next ship from Windhelm? There's nothing stopping me from leaving."

" _Drem, tiidkiir._ Fate is fate. Your _dez_ is already written. The more you try to run, the more your path will lead you back," Paarthurnax says. Istha huffs, and the gray dragon lowers his head and butts her towards his Word Wall. "If you will not go down and leave me to my _hadriidak_ , then you will spend the night here. You will be warm beside me."

True to his word, the winter chill doesn't seem to touch Istha as she nestles into the small alcove that Paarthurnax creates as he curls into the curve of the wall, though she can't say she rests in a particularly comfortable position. She wonders how long Larjan will stay here, and wishes they would hurry up and leave her be.

"Paarthurnax?" she says after a while, and gets a growl in response. "If my fate's already been chosen for me, what do I get to choose?"  
  
He rumbles in answer, a low thundering sound in his chest. It takes a few moments before he answers, and Istha wonders if dragons can fall asleep that quickly or if he is simply ignoring her.

"Only one aspect of your life... _Dez_... is chosen for you. Everything else is as you make it. You will fight the World-Eater when the time demands it. The path before and after is left to your whim. As you please," he says. She does not know what she pleases. She wishes she could return to a time about a year ago, a time when she still felt welcome in her home in Morrowind.

"What do you suggest I do?" she presses. "Where does someone like me go? I'm not like Larjan. I'm not brave and honourable and everything a Dragonborn should be to the Nords... Did you know that I tried to kill Larjan after he devoured Mirmulnir? I just felt so furious. I'd never been so violent in my life. And it hasn't gone away, Paarthurnax. I want to spill blood. I want to... I want to kill Larjan for taking the title before me. But I know I don't, at the same time. It scared me, so I ran away to the College, but even then I couldn't escape my voice. What's wrong with me?"  
  
Paarthurnax hums sadly, nuzzling his scaly and scarred muzzle closer.

"It is our way, _tiidkiir._ A _dovah's_ first instinct is to dominate over the others - alone. _Enarah._ We do not like to share power, and violence comes too easily to us."

"Does this make me evil?" Istha asks, and she hates her voice for almost breaking as she tries to choke out the last word. The question has been bothering her, at the back of her mind ever since Larjan killed Mirmulnir. The voices are easier to ignore now, but they don't leave so easily.

" _Drem_. Who decides what is _vokul_ and what is not? You are both _dov_ and _fahliil_. The _fahliil_ \- the elf - does not want to be _dov_ , and the _dov_ does not want to beelf. This does not make you evil. It makes you _Dovahkiin_. The _grah_ \- the battle in you, makes you worthy."

"I am not worthy," Istha whispers. "If I was, I would be good."  
  
"What is better - to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?" Paarthurnax asks, yawning and shifting his wings slightly. Istha does not answer. For a long time they are silent, and there is only the sound of air slowly inflating and deflating the enormous pair of lungs beside her. She thinks he has fallen asleep. "If I were you, _tiidkiir_ , I would search out the ones who play in shadows. If you are going up against my _zeymah_ , the World-Eater, you will need luck on your side."  
  
Istha wants to scoff at the mention of luck, but she is too tired. Instead, she dozes off, cradled in the grip of a dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry to deny you a reunion. It will happen, as Paarthurnax says, in good time. But no sooner.  
> We have a lot of pain left to go through before I can let them have their peace.  
> I hope I did Paarthurnax justice - I've been looking forward to their conversation for ages.
> 
> Thanks to Thu'um.org for the translations, I hope they're good and I think most people aren't fluent enough to criticize any mistakes I may have made with Paarthurnax's dialogue.


	15. L - The Sun's Witness

Kynesgrove is in chaos.

He and Lydia start running when they hear screaming and see the black shadow pass over the small town. The buildings are made of wood, the roofs of straw. Tinder, left vulnerable for the dragon to do as he pleases. Larjan starts to curse as a stitch develops in his side and they come to a halt in the street in front of a hysterical young woman. They don't get much useful information out of her, only that the dragon has been circling the old burial mound on the hill above the town for the past few minutes. He charges off in the direction she points in, leaping over undergrowth and boulders to climb the hill.

Somehow Delphine is already there, even though it's too early for the dragon's awakening, and she shouts something unintelligible at him as she ducks behind a rock. He hears nothing over the black dragon's roar, and as it sweeps around for another flyby over the burial mound, he suddenly realizes he has seen this particular dragon before.

_Helgen._

His leg gives out from underneath him and he stumbles as the memories return. Lydia catches his elbow and is yelling at him to get it together, but how can he when the massive black dragon hovering in the air above the burial mound is the same one that razed an entire fortress to the ground before his very eyes? Mirmulnir was a child compared to the monstrous creature that beats its leathery wings in the air above them. They don't stand a chance.

" _Sahloknir! Zii gro dovah ulse_!"

Black spots appear on Larjan's vision, and he barely acknowledges Lydia taking off his helmet until she starts to slap him.

"Wake up!" she snaps. When he stares at her, she quickly adds a quiet "...My thane."  
  
" _Slen Tiid Vo_!" the black dragon roars, and behind them there is an explosion of rock so loud and sudden that it throws both him and Lydia to the ground. Delphine regains her footing the quickest, and motions for them to join her behind the boulder, where she has not yet been spotted. Larjan has a perfect view of a hulking silhouette crawl out of the dip in the ground that marks the dragon burial and shake off centuries of dust and dirt.  
  
"This is worse than I thought...." Delphine mutters. "I'd rather have the Thalmor over this, actually."  
  
"Me too," Larjan says.  
  
As the dust begins to disperse, a second rumbling voice answers the first dragon.  
  
"Alduin, _thuri_!" the skeletal dragon rasps as some kind of energy beyond Larjan's understanding pours out of the sky and onto the living bones. " _Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik_?"  
  
The conversation is beyond his knowledge of dov speech, but he realizes the direness of their situation. He has heard the name Alduin mentioned before, and unless it turns out the legends were a secret campaign to portray cuddly and affectionate dragons as dangerous beasts, he's going to believe them. Delphine treats him like he is stupid, of course, but he is not as oblivious as he seems.

" _Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir_ ," Alduin roars, and at these words Larjan steps out from behind the boulder, hefting his greatsword in two bandaged hands. The newly reborn dragon - Sahloknir - is almost entirely intact now, and he wants to kill it before it has a chance to regain its full strength. He has no expectation of being able to defeat two dragons at once, much less one that is destined to bring about the end of the world. But if he can distract them long enough for Delphine and Lydia to take on Sahloknir, he can try to bring Alduin down...

"Alduin!" he yells out, and both dragons swing their heavy heads towards him. Behind the boulder, he hears Delphine groaning loudly. "You can stop raising the dragons now, there's enough of them already!"  
  
Alduin snorts and twin tendrils of steam trail out from his nostrils. To Larjan's relief he doesn't immediately breathe fire at him or something equally unpleasant, though Sahloknir shifts his weight uneasily, glancing up at Alduin for orders.  
  
" _Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi_ ," Alduin rumbles, and Larjan swears that if dragons could sneer, this one does. "You do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of _Dovah_."

"I never asked for it, you mudcrab-faced cretin!" Larjan yells out. "It's my birthright!"  
  
" _Sahloknir, krii daar joorre_ ," Alduin roars to his newborn ally, and Larjan may not be fluent but he certainly understands the intent behind those ancient words. He adjusts his grip on the greatsword and crouches, his feet spread wide in a balanced stance. An arrow whistles past his ear and embeds itself in Sahloknir's flank as Alduin takes off, leaving only gusts of displaced wind in his wake.  
  
 _Istha!_

Larjan whirls around, his mouth already open to give a cry of delight, his eyes searching out the slender gray figure against the backdrop of green and brown. Then he sees Lydia string another arrow on her hunting bow, and his heart falls.

"Look out!" Delphine yells, and Larjan barely manages to avoid a furious roar of frost breath from Sahloknir with a dodge roll that he manages to pull off surprisingly smoothly. There is no time to gloat, however, because Sahloknir is upon him in an instant. His flesh may not have entirely returned just yet but the razor-sharp teeth that close upon his torso are nothing but present.  
  
Larjan only has seconds before he is crushed in the creature's jaws. There is no time to think. Using the momentum of Sahloknir's shaking head, he swings the sword in his hand down upon the top of the muzzle. The tip glances off the rigid surface of a scale and skids instead into the hooded indent where the dragon's beady eye gleams. Or rather, used to.

Sahloknir's resulting scream of pain gives Larjan just enough space to wriggle free of his jaws and land on the packed dirt below. He dodges the pain-crazed swipes that Sahloknir makes with his wing talons in order to retrieve his sword from underneath him and backs up a few paces as he regains his breath. Sahloknir's teeth pierced his chest armour in several areas, but although a few small shreds of metal stab into his skin as he takes big breaths, nothing seems too deep. As Delphine steps in to claim the dragon's attention, he quickly pulls out a small healing potion from his belt and downs it in two gulps that nearly go down his windpipe. He'll live.

He re-enters the desperate struggle just as Sahloknir sends Delphine flying backwards with a headbutt, and breathes in deeply as the dragon turns its one remaining eye on him. She doesn't get up. He doesn't see Lydia either, and hopes she's still alive somewhere out of range of the dragon's heavy weight. The duty falls to him, then. One deep breath to fill his lungs and then Mirmulnir is in control for a glorious second, rising out to lend his voice to Larjan's as they scream ' _Fus!_ ' in unison. Sahloknir is forced to dig his talons into the ground as the Voice pushes him backwards. His claws leave deep furrows in the ground.

"Your voice is strong... for a mortal," he grudgingly admits. "It's to be a real fight, then. Good!"  
  
Larjan only bares his teeth, his mind more _dovah_ than human in the exhilaration of the fight. He would have never fought like this just a few weeks ago, not with the sweeping sword strokes and the violent Shouts that tear from his throat when he can pause to catch his breath and the merry dance he leads an increasingly injured Sahloknir on. The finale comes with the blade he manages to sink past two chipped scales in Sahloknir's chest. Larjan is standing right by his shoulder, where neither the talons nor the snapping jaws or furious voice can reach him. The dragon stills suddenly, forgetting the desperate thrashing he had been doing just heartbeats before to get Larjan out of the spot it could not defend.  
  
" _Dovahkiin_ ," Sahloknir gasps, lowering his head so his one remaining eye is level with Larjan's face. The bright blue is fading already, growing milky and unfocused. He curls around an exhausted Larjan as though cradling him, and Larjan is forced to lean on the hilt of the sword still embedded in Sahloknir's chest to keep standing as the force of the dying dragon's memories bombards him. His last words remain caught in his throat as the harsh stream of light departs the body it so recently brought back and joins Mirmulnir in Larjan's mind.  
  
Larjan feels as though he is suffocating for a few violent heartbeats as the two _dovah_ souls rearrange themselves around Larjan's mortal one. Then they find a balance, and he breathes again. He rests his forehead on the hilt of his sword as Sahloknir's corpse begins to burn with a cold fire, and does not move until he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder.

It's Delphine. Her cold face is unusually sympathetic and pitying. This is the first clue something is wrong. But Larjan is still riding the high of battlelust and the pressure behind his temples of a second _dovah_ soul, and he doesn't catch on.  
  
"I... It's true, isn't it? You really are Dragonborn," she whispers.

"Of course I am," he says with a boyish grin. Delphine's hand squeezes his shoulder tighter, but he barely feels it through the plating of his ruined armour.

"Don't get cocky, Larjan," she says grimly.

"Why not?" He asks.

"Your housecarl is injured," she replies, and he stands and follows her without hesitation. Behind them, wind whistles softly through the skeleton that is scarcely a few paces away from its original resting place. It is as though nothing ever happened at all.

  
  
................................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

They lay Lydia out in nearby Braidwood Inn, where Kynesgrove's entire population gathers to give whatever support they can to the Dragonborn and his companions. Seeing his housecarl and friend lying so still and broken is one of the worst things he's ever experienced, especially because he can do no more for her than hold her unconscious body as Delphine pours potions down her throat. The miners reappear after a short disappearance with a hooded elderly Dark Elf, who sees Lydia and goes several shades of gray paler. She mutters continuously that she is only an Alteration mage in need of frost salts, not a healer, but she casts the warm golden glow of health over her all the same.  
  
They clean so much blood off of Lydia's broken armour and skin that Larjan wonders how she is still alive, but at least she seems to sleep slightly more peacefully after the Dunmer spinster works her magic. The innkeeper is a brunette Nord woman named Iddra, who quietly takes the Elf mage away and lays her out in a bed after the healing drives her into a deep sleep. She returns a few moments later with advice Larjan is hesitant to take.  
  
"Stoneweaver's magic kept your companion from the brink of death, but only temporarily. She will die if you stay in Kynesgrove. You'd best head to the court mage in Windhelm, and soon."

Even Delphine quietly agrees, though she pulls him aside while Iddra generously prepares travelling supplies for them. They sit at a table in the corner, bent over empty tankards with their heads close together.

"I owe you some answers, don't I?" she says with a sigh. He nods, and she begins talking. "I'm one of the last members of the Blades. A very long time ago, the Blades were dragonslayers, and we served the Dragonborn. The greatest dragonslayer. For the last two hundred years, since the last Dragonborn emperor, the Blades have been searching for a purpose. Now that the dragons are coming back..."

She jerks her head in the vague direction of Kynesgrove's burial mound, and Larjan leans his head into his hand thoughtfully.

"We need to stop them," he says. "I'm not letting Helgen repeat itself."  
  
"That's what I wanted to hear," Delphine says. "There is a lot of work for us to do. I'm still not sure how that big black dragon fits into the picture, but I know the Thalmor are involved. We need to figure out a way to infiltrate them and get information before we can make any moves, but first, Iddra's right. Your housecarl needs attending to. Take her to Windhelm, and when you are both recovered, return to me in Riverwood."

"You're not staying with us?" Larjan asks, surprised. He thought the whole 'serving the Dragonborn' thing would mean she'd join their party. He wouldn't have complained. Though the secrecy act had been irritating, she seemed to have dropped it, and he'd seen her fight with that sword of hers. She'd be a valuable ally. Unfortunately, she only shook her head sadly at Larjan's question.

"I still have my harmless innkeeper act to keep up, remember? I need to return for a while and tie up some loose ends. If I disappear too quickly, I fear the Thalmor will try to get my whereabouts out of the innocent people of Riverwood."

"I understand," Larjan says heavily. He stands, leaving the empty tankard where it is.

"Take my horse," Delphine says, laying a hand on his shoulder. "He's a good steed. You'll need to get to Windhelm soon."

They end up departing just a few minutes later, with Delphine running off on foot Southwards, and the miners helping Larjan sit an unconscious Lydia in front of him on the stallion the older woman lent him. Iddra's supplies are added to their meagre packings, and though Larjan tries to pay for them, the townspeople insists it's the least they can do for the man who saved Kynesgrove.

Lydia wakes up when they are almost there, and stirs feebly in front of him. She remains drowsy and confused until Larjan explains that they are headed to Windhelm, upon which she immediately becomes alert, trying to twist about in the saddle and look at Larjan despite her extensive injuries.

"With all due respect, my Thane, we can't just walk into Windhelm," she pleads.

"Then we'll ride in," he answers, patting the stallion's neck affectionately.

"Larjan, please. It's a matter of politics. Whiterun is firmly neutral in the war, and as Thane you are expected to be as well. Visiting Windhelm will throw a big red flag up for the Empire! You're endangering the people of Whiterun," she says weakly. Larjan isn't moved.

"I'm not letting you die, Lydia. Politics be damned, you have the right to a proper healer," he says.

"Then take me to Danica," she pleads. "She's healed everyone in Whiterun ten times over."

"Too far," Larjan says grimly, and by then they can already see the shadow of the stone city through the faint snowfall. Lydia only shivers and presses her back closer to his chest like she can physically distance herself from Windhelm if she pushes hard enough.

"Do you support the Legion, Lydia?" Larjan asks softly, suddenly realizing there might be a greater reason for her reluctance.

"I support whichever side you support, my Thane," she says miserably. "I am-"

"Your sword and shield, I know, I know," Larjan mutters as he draws the horse to a halt and a stable hand emerges to help them. It's a young woman, Altmer by the looks of her, who blanches when she sees the sheer amount of blood on both of them.

"Where can I find the court mage?" Larjan asks, trying to help Lydia dismount as painlessly as possible. She still groans and leans heavily against him when her feet touch the ground, so he picks her up bridal-style instead. The stable hand calls over a guard, who immediately offers to escort them.

"This isn't how I imagined you carrying me over the doorstep," she jokes weakly as they follow the guard over the bridge leading into Windhelm.

"You'll have to make do," Larjan answers. "I'm too poor for Breezehome."

"Only because you keep having to pay for armour repairs," Lydia murmurs, closing her eyes and leaning her head into his shoulder. "Can't fault you that."

The court mage is in the Palace of Kings, which of course only upsets Lydia even more. Larjan recognizes Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak standing at the other end of the hall, even though he is no longer bound and gagged in a cart beside him, and their eyes meet for a moment. Ulfric nods minutely, and the guard promptly leads Larjan upstairs into a narrow corridor where he has to walk almost sideways to avoid bumping Lydia's head into the walls.

The mage flies into a frenzy when they enter, sending the guard who escorted them in for one Quintus Navale, saying he's far more adept with Restoration than he is. While they wait, Larjan places Lydia on the bed in the corner and strokes her dark hair comfortingly, watching Wuunferth dart about his laboratory, seeking this potion and that.

Quintus Navale turns out not to be the priest that Larjan expects, but instead a local alchemist who knows a fair bit of magic as well. He whistles lowly when he sees Lydia, his expression uncertain.

"How many hours have passed?" he asks Larjan as he bends over her beaten and bruised body, a healing spell in each hand. Larjan scrambles to calculate the time in his head.  
  
"Two hours in Kynesgrove. There was a woman there who kept her from losing too much blood, but she wasn't very good and told us to come here. That was... Three or four hours on horseback," he says, and his heart falls into his stomach when he sees the grim look on the Imperial man's face.

"That's no good. Your healer in Kynesgrove healed the bones wrong in her chest and leg," he says, and Lydia breathes in sharply as he presses gently on her ribcage. "Six hours is pushing the limit of what I can do for you. The more time before you heal an injury, the less effect magic and potions will have on it. The wounds become permanent, you see. If magic didn't have its limitations, no one in Tamriel would ever die."

Lydia closes her eyes, and Larjan turns away so he can pretend he doesn't see tears prickle at the corners of her eyes as Quintus continues his work in silence. Even the court mage is quiet, standing on the other side of the room and examining a soul gem with an intensity that might make an observer believe he is trying to burn through it with his eyes.

"I'm sorry, travellers. I have potions to ease your pain in my shop, but this is the best I can do for you. From here you will simply have to let nature and time do its work," the alchemist says, standing up with a sigh.

"Thank you," Larjan says blankly. "We'll stop by for the potions and payment for your deed later."

Quintus bows and departs, leaving Larjan and Lydia to feel rather awkward in Wuunferth's room. A guard appears scarcely a moment later, asking for Larjan to follow him to the main hall. He doesn't want to leave Lydia, not now, but he knows this is in return for being allowed entrance to the Palace of Kings.

Ulfric Stormcloak and a man with a bear skin draped over his shoulders are waiting for him by the throne. Larjan approaches uncertainly, not sure if he should bow or run.

"Welcome to Windhelm, Thane of Whiterun," Ulfric says, and Larjan has to wonder how he knows of him.

"Have you heard from your friend recently?" Ulfric asks conversationally, when Larjan does not reply. "Short, gray-skinned, very angry individual. She Shouted at me about three weeks ago. I hope you don't intend to do the same thing."

Larjan's eyes open wide.

"Istha! She's been through here? She Shouted at you?" Larjan fires off questions even as Ulfric puts a hand up warning him to slow down. He winces as another thought occurs to him. "Please don't tell me you threw her in jail and she escaped."

Ulfric only laughs.  
  
"Throw her in jail? My friend, no true Nord would do a thing like that to a Dragonborn. Besides, we got along quite well after that. She insisted she had another destination to get to soon, but while she talked we had an interesting conversation about politics. Her insights were... surprisingly useful, to say the least."

Larjan's stomach turns slightly. Though nothing of the sort is being said, he understands that he is being played. Ulfric is trying to recruit him.

"What did she say?" Larjan asks, dreading the answer. Jarl Ulfric leans on his throne, looking every inch the king.

"Only that she'd consider lending her support to my cause in the future," Ulfric says. Larjan isn't sure whether or not to believe the Jarl's words. On one hand, that doesn't sound like something Istha would do. On the other, he doesn't know her at all. They were companions bound together by a mutual need for survival for just a few weeks. Nothing more, though the tightness in his chest seems to suggest otherwise.

"I see," Larjan says, wondering how to best get out of this conversation. The man with a bear-skin who stands beside Ulfric snorts in displeasure. "Istha is not... bound politically," Larjan continues falteringly. He remembers Lydia's words on the trip here, and grasps at them desperately. "As Thane of Whiterun, my choices reflect on the town as a whole. Jarl Balgruuf wants to remain neutral in this war... So I must follow his discretion."

He's not even sure if he's using the word discretion correctly. He was never meant for high courts and fancy speeches. He's just the son of a werewolf and an alchemist. Fortunately, both Ulfric and the bear-skinned man understand the meaning he is trying to get out. There will be no enlisting Dragonborns today.

"Very well," Ulfric Stormcloak says. "Windhelm's gates are open to you, Dragonborn. When you wish to change your mind, come speak to me."

Larjan excuses himself quickly, and runs back to Lydia. She is standing now, trying to walk while leaning on the court mage.

"Look, Larjan!" she says tightly, smiling despite the pain evident in her pale face. "I can walk!"

He doesn't miss the pronounced limp as she hobbles into his arms, or her uneven breathing.

"Come, Lydia," he says as gently as possible. "It's time to go home."

The walk to the stables takes forever, but Larjan can't bring himself to hurry her or pick her up. She's too stubborn and proud. She accepted his help when she had no choice, but now she seems determined to prove herself to him as still adventure-worthy. It does not matter, his mind is made. He will be travelling alone after this, unable to bring himself to take a follower along if they will only die because of him. The life of a Dragonborn is dangerous, and this realization strikes him heavily for the first time.

Once they reach Whiterun, Larjan will scrounge up the money for Breezehome somehow, so she has a place to stay other than Dragonsreach, where she'll only be reminded of what she lost every time she sees the other able-bodied guards. He lets the horse walk as Lydia falls asleep, leaning back against his chest. He doesn't want to be alone just yet, so he heads instead to Ivarstead. The Greybeards will be wanting their horn, and Delphine probably needs a few days to set her plans into motion anyway.

"Did you join the Stormcloaks?" Lydia asks, and he startles in the saddle. He thought she was asleep. He shakes his head, then remembers she can't see him.

"No. I'll stay neutral as long as Whiterun does," he says. He swears he can hear Lydia smile.

"How about you?" he asks. "If I hadn't come along, would you have joined the Legion?"

"My home is in Whiterun," she murmurs uncertainly. "...Maybe."

"Why do you support them?" Larjan asks. "I still don't understand what's going on. I'm gone for a few years and suddenly no one knows what 'True Nord' really means anymore."

"I guess it's mostly because of Talos," Lydia says. "The Empire and the Thalmor started outlawing his worship, and some of us didn't like that. I've always favoured Kynareth anyway, so it didn't bother me that much, but some people believe in Talos with everything they have. I can understand, I suppose, why they want that freedom back... But it doesn't seem worth it to me. We had peace before Ulfric Stormcloak murdered the High King. It wasn't the best kind of peace, but it was still something. People weren't dying on both sides."

"I don't think there's a good and a bad side," Larjan says softly. "I always liked Talos, but... Maybe you're right. Maybe he's not worth the war. The Legion has its flaws, but maybe they're worth some respite from the war. I can't believe people still care about that while there are dragons flying around everywhere."

Lydia laughs at that, and breaks off suddenly. He winces as she starts coughing and hugging her torso tightly with her arms with each shuddering motion. He searches in his mind for comforting words, and comes up with none. They talk a lot in the next two days, slowly making their way to Ivarstead. Sometimes it's more politics, sometimes it's the lighter topic of childhood anecdotes and teasing each other's cooking skills. Larjan never mentions that Lydia's laboured breathing keeps him up at night, or that he hears her crying out in her sleep once and crawls over, only to find that she is dreaming. In her dream, she is pleading with someone he expects is him, trying to argue that she is not useless.

He doesn't know how to react to that. He doesn't know how to handle his own nightmares, much less hers, and so he doesn't wake her. He wishes women were less complicated.

Things get messy again when they reach Ivarstead. She wants to accompany him up the Seven Thousand Steps, and as much as he would like to humour her, they have to leave the horse behind and there's no way her lame leg will allow her to finish the climb. He considers just giving the Horn to Klimmek to take up with the monthly supplies, but he feels like the Horn deserves more respect than that, and he also wants to talk to the Graybeards again.

So he leaves her in Wilhelm's inn - she refuses to say goodbye or look at him when he departs without her - and starts the long trek up. The weather isn't nearly as bad as it was the last time he had to climb this Divines-damned mountain, and he knows what to expect. He stops for a moment by the dragon skeleton that still partially blocks the path just below High Hrothgar, and takes off his gauntlet so he can lay his bare palm against the smooth surface of its skull.

He doesn't know what he expects. Perhaps some residual soul to fill him and join Mirmulnir and Sahloknir. It doesn't happen, so he stands with a sigh and puts the gauntlet back on. Istha has taken more from him than she likely realizes.

High Hrothgar is a warm welcome after the winds of the mountain. Arngeir greets him at the door, and he hands over the Horn with a feeling of relief.

"You have no idea what I went through to get that," he says. Somewhere in High Hrothgar, a door opens. Larjan looks around curiously as a sudden cold draft disturbs the few strands of loose hair that have fallen out of his ponytail. The slamming door echoes in High Hrothgar's empty halls.  
  
"What was that?" he asks Arngeir.

"A matter for another time," the monk responds. "Come. It is time for us to greet you properly."

The other three Graybeards emerge from shadowed hallways and alcoves, each standing at a corner of a square formed in the centre of the foyer. Larjan stands in the middle, facing Arngeir, not quite sure what to expect. As it turns out, the 'greeting' is a taste of the full power of the Graybeards' combined _Thu'um_. He barely manages to keep standing as the force of four different voices bombards him from every direction. He kneels, hands on the cold stone floor in front of him, and struggles to regain his breath as they finish.

"Rise, Dovahkiin," Arngeir says. So he does.  
  
They show him to a room off to the side, where he gratefully leaves his belongings on one of the two beds, and turns to look at the other. His blood runs cold. There are no immediate indications of Istha, but he can't stop the suspicions that wash over him. The Elven bow, instead of the Imperial one she carried when she travelled with him. Remnants of gold facepaint on the end table. Spellbooks piled at the foot of the bed. And draped over the back of a simple wooden chair, leather armour. He picks it up and examines it critically. There are new holes and patches in it that he doesn't recognize: a gaping hole in the worn material near her hip, small tears in her gauntlets and shoulders. He places it back and sits on the bed heavily.

_The door slamming earlier. Arngeir's subtle change in subject._

There are not very many places in High Hrothgar to hide. He could find her, easily. But she is going to great lengths to avoid him, and he's so very exhausted, so instead he just takes off his armour and stretches out on his bed. He's asleep within minutes. The next morning, her bedsheets remain as immaculately untouched as the night before, and he knows Lydia is waiting for him in Ivarstead.

"Can you tell Istha I'm sorry?" Larjan says to Arngeir on his way out. The old man merely nods, and Larjan is grateful he doesn't ask what for. He doesn't know what he's apologizing for, only that his heart is heavy with regret as he leaves High Hrothgar and doesn't look back. He wonders what Istha will think when she returns to her room and sees the sprig of lavender he left on her pillow. Will she notice it at all? Will she understand the helpless gesture?

 _At least Lydia is easier to read._ She wraps him in a tight embrace as he enters the inn, and he can only hug back. Wilhelm smiles knowingly at him as he leans his chin on Lydia's head, and Larjan cannot smile back.

"Let's go," he says to Lydia, and they take up their now-familiar arrangement on Delphine's dappled stallion. Lydia sings quietly as they start on their journey towards Whiterun, and though he groans and protests when she starts _The Dragonborn Comes_ , soon he joins in wherever he knows the verses, amused by the irony of it all.

They set up camp not far from Whiterun - Dragonsreach is a visible silhouette on the plains. It's less because they actually need to, and more because neither of them wants to admit they are dreading their arrival in Whiterun. This close to home, and with a giant and his flock of mammoths standing guard nearby, they feel safe enough to let down their guard. Larjan strips of his gauntlets, boots and helmet, enjoying the warm air and the grass under his bare feet. Lydia does the same as she skins two rabbits for them to eat. She's taken over the cooking in the last few days, and he lets her because the memory of her crying out 'useless!' at night still shadows him.

He lights a fire with his meagre magic skills as she stands to go wash her hands in the nearby river. She cries out suddenly, and he snaps to attention, his hand already reaching for the greatsword leaning against a nearby boulder.

"Lydia!" he shouts, running forward as she slumps to the ground, clutching her shoulder. A golden arrow has pierced her straight through. Elven make.

"Larjan!" she cries, reaching for him. She's just a few paces away. Another arrow whistles past him, and he opens his mouth to yell her name again just as it embeds itself in her forehead, almost perfectly centered between her temples. She jerks backwards as though slapped, her expression suddenly blank. Larjan makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat as he catches her under the shoulders before she topples over, and lays her on her side so as to not jostle the arrow in her shoulder.

It's too late, far too late, and he knows that but he still tries to heal her nonetheless, heal her with every thing he has in himself.

But then their attackers are upon him, and there are too many, and he isn't wearing half his armour, and their swords are coated in some kind of paralysis poison and Mirmulnir and Sahloknir roar in defiance, but they are trapped in his body the way he is and _by the Divines he can't think he can't do this Lydia is dead he is going to die too why can't he lift his arms to defend himself they were so close to Whiterun why didn't they just go to Whiterun if they did Lydia would still be alive and he wouldn't have this sword at his throat!_

And then there is nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... I am so, very sorry.
> 
> (Those character death tags are there for a reason.)


	16. I - Playing In Shadows

Istha doesn't want to leave Paarthurnax - why would she? He's a dragon who doesn't want to kill her! And is incredibly intelligent and well-spoken! And has seen centuries and centuries go by, both in life and mysterious holes in time! The learning opportunities are unbelievable, but after another day spent at the Throat of the World with him, they both know she must go.

That doesn't mean she's happy about it, however.

She spends another two days meditating on the Fire Breath word in the Time-Wound, in tiny separate sessions, but sees progressively shorter and more confusing scenes. She would be lying to herself if she said she wasn't doing this primarily because she hoped she'd see that face again - the gray one. The one she doesn't dare to believe belongs to a mother she has never seen. Every time she tries to drift Eastward, to that tangle of bright strings where she caught her first glimpse, it throws her back into the physical present. Eventually she tries other directions, and finds tangles all other Tamriel. Two in Hammerfell. One in High Rock. Three in Cyrodiil. One in the southernmost point of Elsweyr. One in the Black Marsh. Two in Valenwood. She doesn't understand what they could mean.

"I just need more time to figure it out," she tells Paarthurnax when the Time-Wound forces her conciousness outwards for what seems like the twentieth time. The ancient gray dragon merely growls deep in his chest and nudges her to her feet like a very large, very spiny mother hen. She knows he wants her to depart already, wants his isolation back, but she can't leave the Time-Wound just yet. Not when it draws her in and she feels like she's right on the brink of understanding the mystery that is her missing childhood.

"Off you go, _tiidkiir_ ," Paarthurnax rumbles when she tries protesting. "One _dov_ hiding from the world in his meditation is enough. Two is absurd. You are not a Greybeard. You are _Dovahkiin_ , and you go pull the strings of _dez_ yourself instead of watching from afar."

She sighs, staring sombrely at the ripples in the air.

"So I should try to hunt down this Elder Scroll you mentioned?" Istha asks. Paarthurnax snorts and takes off, his leathery wings beating great gusts of air onto her. She thinks she has angered him somehow, but he only circles above her once before landing on his Wall, resuming the perch she first met him in.

"I did not say that," he grumbles, but she understands the look in his eyes. The Elder Scroll is the key to everything happening here, but he doesn't think it's time for her to get it yet. "Go, _tiidkiir_. To the shadows with you. Walk with them. Learn their ways, their _soven_. When you are wise you can return and we will talk about the lights you see in the _tiid-ahraan._ "

"Why not now?" Istha whines. Paarthurnax growls, and she takes a step back. She is reminded of the unspoken lesson between them - Paarthurnax is a wise dragon, not a tame one. He can still be dangerous if he wants to be, and if she does not listen he may choose to be.

" _Kun ahrk vul_ ," he says, and she waits patiently for a moment, knowing he can usually supply a translation in Common if he can be bothered. But he does not continue, instead choosing to duck his head under a wing and roost, much like a bird. She sighs. The signs are clear, the conversation is closed. She picks up the _Book of the Dragonborn_ , the only possession she brought up with her, and departs.

Istha feels a little foolish, Shouting her way down to High Hrothgar, but it's the only way to get past the swirling snowstorm. She finds Arngeir kneeling in the foyer, his head bent forward in calm meditation. She doesn't call for his attention, but instead goes to her room to pack her things while she waits for him to finish. The bed on the other side of the room is ruffled but empty. She hesitates for a moment, and lays down on top of it. Just for a moment. But it's her first time sleeping in a bed in three days, and it smells faintly like woodsmoke and musk, and next thing she knows she is waking up hours later in that same bed. It is morning.

She quickly grows embarrassed when the remaining traces of Larjan reach her nose, and gets up, brushing herself off like the feelings are on her skin and she can get them off if she scrubs hard enough. One of the Graybeards left a tray of food on her bed, the one she was supposed to sleep in, as well as a tiny bit of lavender on her pillow, and she hesitates before including it in her pack. She'll add it to a potion later. It might save her life.

After wolfing down breakfast, she finds Arngeir in the foyer.

"You could have mentioned your Grandmaster is a dragon," she says mildly. He looks alarmed until she adds. "Don't worry, we got along splendidly. He made me breathe fire at him and then pushed me into a gaping hole in time and space. Do you have any idea where I might find an Elder Scroll?"

Arngeir blinks rapidly for a moment, trying to gather together his thoughts.

"I liked you better when you refused to talk for three days," he says. Istha wrinkles her nose. She waits for another moment, but he does not fill the lull in conversation.

"Elder Scroll..." she prompts. Arngeir doesn't know, and doesn't seem to care for such a relic. He recommends speaking to the librarian at the College of Winterhold, but Istha has a feeling that if she returned there, Brelyna would just kick her right back out into the big wide world again without waiting to hear an explanation that _yes she actually is doing her duty as Dragonborn for once._

Istha takes her time going down the mountain, wonders if she can find a courier in Ivarstead. Then she decides it might not be worth it if Larjan has lingered in town. Is Lydia still with him? Now that she thinks about it, she didn't hear the housecarl's voice when she fled High Hrothgar. Perhaps she had enough of blood and danger and returned to Whiterun.

She ends up avoiding Ivarstead all together. Now that she knows the Thalmor are on the prowl for Larjan, she doesn't want to make herself a target as well. Too many trips up and down to visit the Graybeards would just be... suspicious. She's not initially sure where to go, so she pulls out her creased and blood-stained map and lays it out on a nearby rock with a few pebbles in each corner to weigh it down.

Whiterun is out of the question, as are Windhelm and Winterhold. Maybe she should just stay away from W's for a while. Anything West (another W) of Whiterun would require her to stop there for supplies, and she doesn't care for venturing into the territory of the bastards who captured her on the Skyrim border and tried to cut her head off. She considers returning the favour later, but not now. Not until she decides what to do about those blasted Thalmor. That leaves only one section of Skyrim remaining to her, unless Paarthurnax expects her to thoroughly risk her life for the sake of progress. Too bad for him. She was always a selfish child.

Her eyes drift instead to a tiny coat of arms labelled Riften. She's heard that mentioned, she realizes. The guards in Whiterun, complaining about thieves. The answer comes to her suddenly. _Thieves._  Of course! Who else would know the shadows better than them? She's so happy she could kiss Paarthurnax. Interspecies be damned, she's dragon on the inside, isn't she?

She allows herself only a brief moment of celebration, however. Her map says that if she just follows the river to Riften, she'll get there without too much trouble. A day's journey if she moves quickly, maybe two. She doesn't see why she should dawdle, so she sets off. She crosses over onto the main road just after the bridge in Ivarstead, planning to make a good pace on the cobblestone. The air is warm, and she raises her face up to the sky to enjoy the sun's rays without snow blowing into her face for once. A soft breeze tugs loose leaves off the spread branches of deciduous trees, and when the odd one falls into her hair she brushes it out with mild impatience.

The main roads are usually safe in Skyrim, but since she's never been this far Southeast before, she walks with her bow held loosely in one hand. The scariest part of that afternoon comes when she walks past an Imperial guard, patrolling around a camp just off of the road, and has to struggle to keep her face blank and emotionless. She doubts the Legion is still looking for her, but one can never be too careful. Every once in a while she raises her free hand and casts a simple little Illusion trick that Onmund taught her - a clairvoyance spell that shows her where to go. The magic itself is easy - keeping Riften clear in my mind when she's never even seen the city is trickier. The main road seems to head in the right direction, however, and she doesn't have much trouble until she comes to a fork. After some debate and spell-casting, she eventually takes the right.

Not long after the fork, she comes across a Nord man fighting off a bear with what looks like a woodcutter's axe. Normally she wouldn't get herself into this, but they're in her way. She loads a steel arrow and lets it fly into the bear's neck. It snarls but continues attacking the unarmoured man, and it takes the two of them to finally bring it down. The man returns his axe to a holster on his belt as she approaches, and smiles sunnily at her.

"Thanks for the help! I didn't think I'd get into trouble on the roads, but it looks like my adventure's already started," he says with a laugh. She eyes him warily and crouches beside the dead bear. Some of her arrows were on the side it fell on, and those have been snapped, but there are two she thinks she can recover. "Where are you off to? You look like a mercenary. Me, I'm a farmer. Well I was. I'm actually headed to Windhelm to join Ulfric Stormcloak," he says proudly. Istha pauses in her struggle for arrows to glare at him.  
  
"Ah, I see you like your silence. No matter. Say, have you ever eaten bear meat? It's quite tasty. Chewy, but filling."  
  
She only sighs irritably, and slips a dagger out of her belt. The blade is small, old iron, but she's kept it sharp. She digs it into the bear's stomach, splitting the fur from crotch to collarbone. Her leather armour still needs patching, this will do quite nicely. Annoyance prickles at her as the farmer bends down beside her and starts to continue the cuts she made on the stomach, but she lets him be when she sees he seems to know what he's doing. She herself only has a vague idea from her time spent in Cyrodiil's wilderness, but between the two of them they get the bear skinned and cut into pieces.

The farmer doesn't bat an eye when she lights the fire with her magic, not even when she intentionally allows an unnecessarily large flame to ignite in her palm. She even allows herself to feel a tiny bit of grudging respect, until he opens his mouth again to suggest that she comes with him to join the Stormcloaks. Funny how Nordsmen are only kind to her when they want her to die for their sake. She'll leave him to his own patriotism. He'll die with Ulfric Stormcloak's war cry on his lips anyway, without ever understand what it is he fights for.

They roast the meat in long, thin strips of muscle, seasoned with the meagre amount of salt Istha carries on her. He lets her keep the pelt, for which she is grateful. Slitting his throat if he disagreed would have been messy. They part soon after the meal, though the farmer cheerfully offers to escort Istha to Riften if she really wants. 'Just say the word!' Istha says nothing.

She follows the road without further thought until it starts curving steeply North. With a frown, Istha raises her hand to cast a clairvoyance spell. It sends her straight ahead, off the main path. She peers through the trees in front of her and sees the glint of sunlight on water. That makes up her mind. There are three mudcrabs that emerge from the depths of the shallow pools to greet her with chattering claws, but these are dispatched quickly enough with a kick that overturns them and a dagger to the soft underbelly. The springs seem otherwise unoccupied, so she strips off her gauntlets and bends down to drink.

Her greatest worry now is finding a place to sleep. Travelling alone is unpleasant, and as she pokes uncertainly around some burrows near the springs she's reminded of why she wanted a guide in Skyrim. Cyrodiil was one thing; this new, cold land is entirely more ruthless. She eventually curls up in one of the larger burrows, probably one that belonged to a bear, and sleeps fitfully.

She hates that Larjan isn't around to take first watch the way he always does, with a cheerful kind of optimism that would've earned him a shiv between the ribs back in Morrowind. She hates that he isn't here to press his back to hers, sharing warmth as the sun drops below the mountainous horizon and the temperature quickly follows. She hates that she misses him in the first place.

 

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Riften proves itself to be seedy from the start. Istha approaches the Southern gate with her apprentice hood up over her head, and maybe it is this that makes the guards stop her. They demand a visitor's tax. Istha says nothing. When one of them reaches for her hood, asking if she's deaf, she dodges the hand and slips between the ajar gates in one fluid motion. There are yells, but no one follows her inside. Her first instincts were right – there is no visitor's tax. There are merely a few bored guards looking to make a bit of extra coin on the side.

Istha peers out from under her hood as she slinks behind buildings and over bridges, her eyes noting shadowy characters that move within Riften's crowds. The population is a flock of sheep, the thieves are sheepdogs. She sees the flow of motion as though floating above the city, sees hands slipping into pockets and gold changing owners as easily as a tavern wench changes lovers.

But where does it originate?

She continues circling the city, pushing through throngs of people when she catches glimpses of crime, but the thieves merely melt into the background before she ever has a chance to reach them. At lunchtime she gives up and sits on the stone ledge that encircles the city's marketplace as she munches on a salted strip left over from the bear she and the farmer killed. Her heels bounce on the wall as she kicks out her feet, like a child.

A red-haired man leaning against a stall of potions as colourful as his hair catches her eye, going so far as to wink when he notices her. She glares at him for a moment before looking away, losing her nerve when he seems to have no intention of taking his eyes away. After another minute she simply slides off the stone ledge and stalks away.

She is entirely at a loss.

However rampant the corruption in Riften may be, she doubts she can just waltz through the streets yelling her desire to join the infamous Guild, and that is not her style anyway. How can she show her intention? Does she have to waste several days in this town, picking pockets until someone sees her? She groans in frustration and leans against a wall in an alley, banging the back of her head on the wooden planks for good measure.

After taking her frustration out on a skeever that's rooting through garbage in the back of the alley, she re-emerges onto the street, heads toward the inn near the marketplace. The Bee and the Barb, the sign proclaims. Inside, an Argonian innkeeper eyes her warily as she rubs a tankard with a waterlogged rag.

"You're new in town," the woman rasps as Istha comes nearby. She nods in response, and the woman makes some kind of pleased reptillian sound. "Good. We don't have many visitors anymore, not since Helgen. My business is going down. You here for a room?"  
  
Istha nods again, and the woman bends down behind the counter. She surfaces again with a simple iron key.

"10 gold, includes dinner. An extra 5 for a bath with warm water."  
  
 _Well, why not._ She has plenty of time to burn, it looks like. Another Argonian leads her upstairs to her room, calls himself Talen-Jai and proudly suggests she try some of his famous brews if she's looking to get dead-drunk tonight. _Not in a town like Riften, I won't._

She peers out the window above the bed, looking down at the marketplace as the vendors pack up their wares for the evening. The red-haired man is gone. With a sigh, she lets the moth-eaten curtain fall and goes to wash up a bit.

 

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There are footsteps on the roof. She wakes instantly, one hand already reaching for the dagger under her pillow. She sleeps in her underclothes, but her armour is already laid out nearby. She dresses in a flash, scooping her quiver over her shoulders as she goes through the door.

Clouds hide Secunda and Masser from illuminating the ground. _A good night for remaining undetected._ It takes her a moment to spot the lean figures leaping from roof to roof against the gray backdrop.

But when she does, she instantly has the bow hooked over her shoulder and her feet in the gaps in the nearby flower trellis. The figures are gone by the time she's scaled the wall, and she panics for just a moment until she spots them again, further away. She follows them as quickly as she can, though some of the larger gaps between roofs make her detour. She reaches the point where she last saw them and looks around in disappointment. _Where did they go?_

A screech nearly tears itself from her throat as she finds herself suddenly grabbed and thrown to the shingles beneath her, but no sound makes it past the heavy hand clamped over her mouth. She writhes desperately as her attacker only settles more of his weight on her and yanks her hood away from her face. Istha stills as cold steel presses against her throat. Two ice-blue eyes narrow at her as she stops moving.

"Fancy yourself a vigilante, Elf?"

His voice is like sandpaper, his glower as hard as diamonds. A man carved out of stone. Istha gives no answer, as the hand is still over her mouth and she doesn't dare to shake her head with that dagger at her throat.

"Hurry up, Cynric. Gut her and lets go," a melodious female voice says from somewhere near Istha's head. The man - Cynric - doesn't move.

"You try screaming and this dagger goes up through the roof of your mouth," he growls, and Istha blinks as he frees her jaw. "What do you want?"

"I'm looking for the Guild," Istha says quietly.

"Yeah? What for?" Cynric asks. The unseen woman scoffs and paces behind Istha's head.

"Training."

"Training," the man repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You want to be a thief?"

"I am a thief," Istha says, a slightly offended tone creeping into her voice. "I want to be a better one."

"Cynric. We have a job to do," the woman complains. The man only continues to stare down at her, his mouth set in a hard, displeased line. Istha doesn't feel like she's in danger anymore, but the roof isn't particularly comfortable and her quiver digs into her shoulderblades, so she hopes he'll let her up soon. Eventually he sighs and slides the dagger at her throat back into a small sheath on a strap over his chest, and stands up. Istha follows quickly, backing up so she can keep both thieves in sight. She recognizes the woman, having seen her lurk in the inn and glare at everyone, but the man is new. How many more thieves hide in this city, never seeing the light of day?

"Go home. We don't want some unapproved rookie botching our job tonight. If you rat us out to the guards, Sapphire and I will string you up by your intestines and leave you dangling over the wall. Understand?"

Istha presses her lips together and resists the urge to light the man on fire. This is not the outcome she was hoping for. However, he continues.

"Tomorrow morning, ask for Brynjolf in the marketplace. If you pass his test... Well, we'll talk then. Now goodbye," Cynric says, wheeling around and disappearing over the ridge of the next roof. Sapphire lurks until Istha turns, stiffly displaying her back to the other woman, and then they are both gone.

The night is not a complete failure, she thinks as she slips back into the inn and sneaks past the innkeeper who is reading in the small pool of light provided by a single lantern. She has a purpose, a name to seek out come sunrise.

  
........................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

_Dear Brelyna-_

_Hope you got back to the College all right without me. As promised, here's your letter. I'm sorry it took a while, I spent about a week in High Hrothgar. I reached Riften yesterday, and it looks like I'll be staying here for a while. I've fallen in with some interesting characters. I don't think you'd like them, but don't worry. I know what I'm doing. And this really is Dragonborn business - believe me! The Grandmaster of the Greybeards himself sent me. Brelyna, I wish I could introduce the two of you and see your face when you look at him._

_Listen, this letter isn't all cheery sunshine. I need help with some business. I'm looking for an Elder Scroll, I think it'll give me some answers about where I come from and why there's two Dragonborns. If anyone in Skyrim knows anything about it, it'll be Urag. Can you help? You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important._

_Take care of yourself, and please don't try any magic on J'zargo while I'm away. He's worse with his fire than I am._

_\- Istha_

 

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Her first week within the Guild's ranks is spent running menial errands and avoiding an irritatingly attractive Cynric Endell, who thinks it's hilarious that she made it past Brynjolf's testing after all, and wants to celebrate by getting her drunk and throwing her into the dirty waterway in the town's bowels. Istha can't say she's particularly interested. Plus, the new armour Tonilia gives her is leather - not great when mixed with water.

"It's tradition!" he complains whenever Istha slips out of reach. A few of the other men all murmur in agreement, immediately offering their own memories of initiation. "Come on. You're still holding a grudge against me for wanting to stick a knife in your pretty throat?"

Istha shrugs non-committally as she raises her bow to eye-level. The Cistern has an archery range set up on the side, and she's surprised to find how many of the other thieves know their way around with a bow and arrow.

"You've been training with Niruin," Cynric says disapprovingly as her arrow embeds itself in the target's head area. Istha turns to look at him exasperatedly, and he saunters forward with a crooked grin. She loads an arrow casually, but he seems entirely unperturbed by the quiet threat. The Breton pushes the tip of her arrow just a tiny bit lower and to the left. "The sword shoulder," he says. The tip of his finger trails up the shaft the arrow and along her arm as he speaks. "You don't want to kill. You just want to maim. Good thieves don't need to shoot unless they're discovered. And if you are discovered, and then caught, it's one thing to serve the sentence for theft and assault, and an entirely different one to serve for murder. I would know," he says with a wink, just as his finger pokes her nose. "I know my way around jails."

"Well," Istha responds once her brain starts working again. "I'm not just a thief. I'd be dead a hundred times over if I didn't aim to kill."

"Ambitious, are we?"

Istha nods slowly.

"Tell you what. You'll mess up your first big job. You come crying to me, and I'll buy you a few drinks and tuck you in at night, and then maybe you'll start listening to my advice. Sound good?"

"And if I don't make any mistakes?" Istha asks haughtily.

Cynric spreads his arms wide and juts his chin out. "I'm open to suggestions."

"You kiss me," Istha says. She regrets the words almost immediately. Just because she's been alone the past year - aside from those few drunken moments with Larjan - doesn't mean she can just lose her head and start flirting with irritating human strangers.

But Cynric just laughs and claps her on the shoulder before sauntering away to god knows where. Insufferable bastard. She doesn't know what possessed her to say that out loud. Istha grits her teeth and has the urge to shoot him somewhere that maims, but forces herself to put away the bow and seek out Brynjolf. If he doesn't give her something to do more exciting than beating up citizens, she's going to throw a fit.

The red-haired Nord who has taken her as his apprentice seems a little nervous when she finds him drinking with Vekel the Man in the Flagon.

"Right away, lass," he says, downing his tankard and pushing his chair backwards with the back of his knees as he stands. Istha winces and twitches her ears as the scrape echoes in the curve of the bar. "Sorry. Right, what was it you wanted? A new job? Well, there's no sense in putting it off. It's time you met the Guildmaster."

Istha raises a thin, dark eyebrow. Brynjolf looks at her with furrowed eyebrows and shakes his head. "He won't like you, lass. I'm warning you ahead of time. The Guild has a bad history with mysterious Dark Elf women."

She doesn't really understand the worry in his voice until she meets Mercer Frey face to face, and nearly takes a step back from the hatred she sees in his sneer before Brynjolf hastily introduces her by name. Even then, whispers of intense dislike remain. The cold in that man's eyes could put Winterhold to shame.

  
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Istha is beyond pissed before she even reaches Goldenglow. She's cold, she's wet, there's a dead slaughterfish stuck to her boot, and Brynjolf says she's not allowed to kill anyone, mercenary or otherwise. The lake is freezing but she forbids herself from getting out until she's circled the island once in the darkness, making note of every dark patch the lanterns don't quite reach and the fence that blocks off the beehives from the water.

If Brynjolf and that damned Mercer Frey won't let her have her usual fun, she'll just have to find something else to entertain herself with. She casts one last look around the island, and lifts up the lid to the sewer Vex attempted to go through on her last visit. Her potions are neatly lined up in the pockets of her Guild armour, and there are extras in her pack just in case something goes wrong.

She doesn't intend for anything to go wrong.

The sewers are a piece of cake - skeevers that she lights on fire and leaves on the sides of the tunnel before they've even stopped twitching. Brynjolf said nothing about leaving the local wildlife untouched. There are a few traps set out, but these are likely more for the skeevers than for her, and they're easily avoided. _It looks like a five-year old child set them up. Three bear traps in a row? Really? Who wouldn't notice that?_

She emerges from the sewer right beside the back door. Luckily there are no mercenaries here, and she takes out a lockpick from its place tucked behind her ear with a quiet hum. It clicks, and she grins. It looks like the hours spent fiddling with the locks in the Cistern's training room paid off - she'd never have been able to crack a lock like this a few months ago.

She pulls out her first potion just before she opens the unlocked door. It's absolutely disgusting, but as she looks down she's relieved to see that it's worked. She is now almost perfectly invisible, only a light shimmer of her outline remaining upon the world.

Time to wreak havoc.

 

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Everyone's waiting in the Flagon when she arrives, even though it's nearly dawn and she hadn't told anyone she was going. At first there is only silence and dozens of expectant eyes as she trudges along the wall and drips lake water onto the rickety wooden bridge into the drinking area. Then she raises her hand, and thunderous cheers erupt and echo in the Flagon as they simultaneously spot the crumpled papers in her hand.

Brynjolf stands and puts his hand up, and the entire Flagon immediately drops back into silence.

"Three hives, lass," he reminds her. "No more, no fewer."

Istha pretends to count on her fingers, then holds three out. Brynjolf's responding smile is dazzling. Truth be told, she nearly burnt down more than three - there was a strong wind blowing from the West when she fled Goldenglow, and in her panic her flames ignited far faster than she thought they would - but Brynjolf never said anything about not soaking the other hives in water. _There's no need to mention that little complication, is there?_

Istha cannot help but grin at her new law-breaking brothers and sisters as they swarm her with congratulations and uncomfortable tight embraces, even though she has barely been introduced to some of them. Even pale Vex gives her a grudging smile.

It is Cynric, however, who seems most proud.

He is leaning against the wall when she enters, his face hidden by the shadows cast by the full hood. He peels himself away from the wall slowly, knowing she is watching. Istha merely tilts her head curiously at him as he walks forward and stops in front of her. _Time to see if he really will follow through with that ridiculous bet we struck._ The bar quiets suddenly as he raises his hands and places them on either side of her face, cupping her dark gray cheeks. He's very warm. Or maybe that's her.

"I hear congrats are in order," Cynric says in that low voice like sandpaper scrapping on stone. Istha has time for a tiny twitch of a smile, and then her lips are rather occupied. He kisses the way she thought he would - with furious purpose, with barely controlled violence and a little bit of bite to match. She does her best to respond in kind. She's vaguely aware of his hands wrapping around her waist, but they are the hands of a pickpocket, and they can be light when they want to be. That's why so she's so surprised when he lifts her up, and before she realizes what's going on, he's already marched to the edge of the drinking area.

"Take a deep breath!" he says cheerfully as he tosses her over the railing. Istha has time to scream, and then she's landed in the water at the bottom of the Flagon. Cynric, being the awful smooth-talking bastard he is, has her Goldenglow papers clutched in his hand and is bent over the railing laughing like his life depends on it.

Istha leaps to her feet instantly, flames already blazing in both palms. Cynric's chuckles subdue slightly as he catches sight of the bright fire, but the cheeky smile remains.

"Well, you never go anywhere near the waterway when I'm around," he explains. Istha glowers.

"Run," Istha suggests. He does, and the sound of merriment of the Guild members in the Flagon follows them as she chases him down the tunnel to the Cistern, only to find that he's lying in wait to ambush her with more kisses.

 _I don't need Larjan_ , Istha thinks as her nimble-fingered thief helps her out of the waterlogged armour and discards it off to the side under the pretence of drying her off. _I don't need him. I don't miss him._ And when Cynric bites down on the curve of her bared neck and the pointed tips of her ears - _oh, using racial advantages is so not fair_ \- she almost believes it.

 

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_Dear Istha-_

_I'm not so sure about whatever company you're keeping in that strange city, but I'll trust your judgement and that of the Grandmaster's. Why does it sound like you're laughing at me when you say you want to introduce us? Is there some joke I'm missing? Very funny, sera._

_Anyway, about the Elder Scroll business: I talked to Urag, and he gave me all the books he had on the subject. One of them was utter nonsense - written by some insanely brilliant scholar who studied the Elder Scrolls in detail, with emphasis on the 'insanely'. Apparently he's holed up near Winterhold somewhere. I'll go looking for him and see if he knows anything as soon as Ancano lets us out of lockdown. That orb we found in Saarthal has him awfully spooked, he's cancelled classes and won't let anyone in or out of the College!_

_We're technically not allowed to send or receive letters either but, well, the other mages aren't happy with his measures either. Some of them are apparently rather... resourceful. If you get this letter, then it means Enthir managed to sneak it out and both of us have to treat him to fresh sweetrolls. If not... Then I guess I'd just get it back? Oh, Onmund's found some new spellbooks, I've got to go make sure nothing valuable breaks._

_Oh, and for Azura's sake, be careful in Riften! I hear rumours about shady organizations underneath the city, so make sure you stay away from dimly lit areas!_

_\- Brelyna._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a stark contrast to Larjan's most recent adventure, aye?  
> I hope you guys don't mind the little letters or the... unexpected new romance. If I were braver, I'd continue that kissing scene, but maybe I'll leave that for later.


	17. L - A Most Excellent Reception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen up kiddos.
> 
> The Thalmor aren't known for being lovable, cookie-baking grandmothers. This chapter contains the most gore in this story so far. I don't think it's incredibly detailed, as I tried to focus more on the psychological impact of it and lean towards flowery language, but I wanted to warn you just in case.

He wakes briefly to find the world rocking back and forth. His eyes find blue sky, but nothing else focuses properly. There is movement to his right - a blurred horseman riding beside the carriage he is lying in. Sunlight glints off a golden helmet. Too visible. These men want to be seen.

He blinks, and returns his gaze to the sky. _Blue._ It is the last glimpse he'll catch for a while. His eyelids fall again.

 

....................................................................................................................................................................................

 

The Thalmor don't waste time.

A slender Altmer woman stands in front of him when he comes to. He is in a half-kneeling position, held upright only by manacles that fasten his forearms to the damp wall behind him. He's never seen a High Elf up close and takes the opportunity to size up his visitor the way she is doing now to him. He doesn't like what he sees. Her hands are clasped loosely behind her back like she's in her home element, her face is framed by soft golden hair and her smile is disturbingly serene as she regards him.

"Good afternoon, Larjan Silvereyes."

"That's not my name," Larjan says automatically. The words come out choked and hoarse. He coughs. How long has he been out?

"Do you mean to tell me that you are not the newest Companion, or the Thane of Whiterun, or perhaps... The Dragonborn?" the Elf says, her smile widening as she leans forward slightly, too close for comfort. There is some kind of feverish happiness in her golden eyes, a delight that he thinks will bring him only pain.

"Lydia," he says, suddenly remembering his housecarl. He cranes his neck to look around the dungeon he is locked up in, but the Elf's body blocks most of his view. There's an unconscious Bosmer man in the cell next to him, but Lydia is nowhere to be seen. "My friend. What happened to her?"

He knows the answer already, but has to ask. High Elves are skilled with magic - maybe one of them took pity and healed the arrow in her forehead. He can't let himself accept the only other option. The Elf smiles even wider if possible. In the dungeon's dim orange light, she looks positively diabolical.

"Oh, her? My soldiers had to leave her behind. It's a shame, really, I'm sure she would have loved to attend, but I only sent one invitation."

Larjan screws his eyes closed and grimaces in pain, thinking of the brave woman he had barely had a chance to befriend. She had been loyal to the end. He lets out a shuddering breath and glares at the Elf.

"Is this just some kind of game to you? An invitation for what?" he demands.

"A party!" she announces, sweeping her arm to the side. She steps back and Larjan finally catches sight of the torture instruments laid out neatly on a table behind her. His blood runs cold and he tastes bile in his throat.

"I'm quite well known for my parties," the Elf says. She reaches out a hand and tenderly strokes his jaw with a thin finger, like a lover might do after a long day of work. Larjan shudders, and the fingers brush over his lips. He bites down, and finds his teeth gnashing on nothing but thin air. The slap he receives cracks something in his neck and the impact echoes through his skull. He sees lightning behind his eyes and momentarily forgets how to breathe. When he regains control of his head, he turns it very slowly to face the Elf once again. He tastes blood in his mouth and swipes his tongue around the cavern of his mouth to assess the damage. His eyes meet those of the Elf. She is no longer smiling.

"If you'll excuse me, I have other guests to entertain," she says, backing out of his cell and locking it behind her. He watches his key to freedom join at least fifteen others on a keyring, and the way she slowly slips it into her robes makes him feel like she's just taunting him. She disappears down a hallway off to the side, her tapping footsteps growing faint. Beside Larjan, the unconscious Bosmer whimpers. He turns just in time to see a tear roll down the other man's cheek. It leaves a wet and shiny path through thick layers of grime and crusted blood.

Larjan hangs his head and tries to think, but his mind runs circles around the knives and poisons lined up on the table in ascending order of cruelty and Lydia's face staring blankly at the sky with the elven arrow in her forehead pointing her straight to Sovngarde. He does not like to admit fear, but here he does not have a choice. The hours pass, and then days. There is no sense of day and night in the dungeon, only time for waiting and time for screaming. The Bosmer never wakes up, even though Larjan distantly thinks that some of the sounds the Elf manages to tear from his throat could raise the dead. When the Wood Elf inevitably dies, they open up a trapdoor and drop his body as though it is trash.

"Filthy Blades spy," one of the soldiers spits after it. Larjan hopes against hope that they don't come for Delphine the way they came for him.

 

....................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Her name is Elenwen. He didn't know it was possible to hate someone like this. The weeks slide away.

 

....................................................................................................................................................................................

 

These are the memories that haunt him, decades later. They are ghosts, invisible in daylight, appearing only with the arrival of dusk.

They branded him yesterday. He thought he'd smelled enough burning flesh at Helgen to last him a lifetime. He was wrong. He feels the Altmer eagle's wings spread over his shoulderblades every time he tries to move. Each feather is a painful curse he cannot voice. He waits for her to heal him, the way she always does. But after several days locked alone in his cell, with not a single guard entering the room, he realizes the time for healing has passed.

Mostly, he hides in his dragons. Sahloknir and Mirmulnir's memories are open books, and when the pain is too great he loses himself in the memories of their lives, becomes more _dov_ than man. A _dovah_ knows the value of silence. He dreams of flying, and of roars that light infernos on thin air, fire from his own lungs that erupts to swallow his tormentors. It never comes.

 

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He has a new neighbour: a tiny Khajiit girl. She can't be much older than the human equivalent of fifteen. She is awake when they drag her in and already crying as her scrawny wrists are forced into the manacles on the wall.

"Hey," he says once the guards leave. She starts crying harder and flinches away from Larjan, burying her furry face into her shoulder and shaking from her sobs. "Please don't cry!" Larjan says, distraught at the thought that he could cause more harm to the girl than good. "I'm not with them. My name is Larjan."

The girl continues sniffling but raises her head to look at Larjan warily.

"This one is known as J'aesire," She whispers, her whiskers trembling as silvery-blue eyes meet gold.

"J'aesire," Larjan rolls the foreign name on his tongue and smiles at her. "I think that's a beautiful name."

He wants to ask what a kitten like her did to deserve the wrath of the Thalmor on her head, but the girl has just barely lessened her crying, and he doesn't want her to start again. They sit in silence, broken only by the girl's muffled distress. It's hard to tell how much time passes. Eventually, after the patrol comes around but before Elenwen arrives for her daily 'conversation' with Larjan, the Khajiit girl asks for a story.

"This one always begged the caravan leader to tell her stories," she says. "This one has trouble falling asleep without a friendly voice."

Larjan cannot refuse her. His voice is all he has left, so he shares his gift as well as he is able to. He talks of his travels in Cyrodiil, of the trouble he'd get himself into just to have enough coin to make it to the next town on the map. He skips the mines - she does not need to hear more cruelty, no one does - but he does tell her about Istha, and the warmth of his voice brings a few rumbling purrs from her throat. He does not spare any detail from Helgen or Bleak Falls Barrow, and she perks up when she hears Whiterun mentioned.

"This one is from Whiterun! Well, nearby Whiterun. Home is back in Elsweyr and here in Skyrim the caravan's only home is the road, but this one pretends Whiterun will let her in one day!"

"I'll let you in," Larjan promises. She presses for more, so he talks about the different districts of a city she will never set eyes upon and the wares in stores she will never shop in and people she will never meet. He talks, hesitantly, of Mirmulnir and the Greybeards calling him for the first time and, with pain in his throat, about Lydia. By the time he has reached the fight at Kynesgrove with Delphine, his throat is as parched as the deserts she comes from, but his words are water and his story a torrential downpour. It is only Elenwen's arrival that still his tongue and stops the flood. Larjan cannot help but grow nauseous at her arrival, expecting the bite of moonstone daggers and the lingering poisons she so favours.

But the Elf ignores him. She has eyes only for J'aesire, for the little Khajiit girl. Larjan closes his eyes as the crunch of bone comes just minutes later. J'aesire screams like an animal. When their minds are broken, that's all that really remains.

"This one is so sorry," she sobs, after they leave her dangling in her chains. "This one would have never asked for your story if she knew it would be torn out of her."

Larjan can't say anything. All those weeks keeping his lips pressed firmly together, telling the Thalmor nothing. Gone. Wasted. Every comforting word he told a little girl so she'd stop crying, dragged out of her along with claws and patches of fur, to be used against him. She doesn't die quietly. He makes a vague attempt to heal her, but their manacles keep them far enough that his weak magic never reaches. So he just tries to drift instead.

When the crying stops, he tells himself she's just resting. _She did say she always needed a story to fall asleep._

 

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Water drips repeatedly in a corner out of sight. Drip drip drip. Is it water? Could be blood. He doesn't know. He can't turn his neck to look.

He tried Shouting at the damned Elf and they forced a long-lasting paralysis potion down his throat and tied a gag around his mouth that doesn't let him breathe properly. He tries sucking in air through his nostrils, but there's something wrong with his nose - he thinks Elenwen punched him, something cracked - and every breath hurts until she finally returns and raises her hand with that blissful golden light and everything feels so much better and then -

 

....................................................................................................................................................................................

 

They bring in a Breton man a few days after. Larjan gets a glimpse of J'aesire's clouded eyes before they drop her through the trapdoor, and shivers violently for hours afterwards.

The man talks constantly. His name is Etienne. He is a thief. He doesn't know anything. He's never seen the man, only knows he's somewhere in the Ratway. He doesn't have anything more to say. He's just a thief. He can't give directions to the man's whereabouts. That's all he knows. Please. He wants to go home.

Larjan wants to go home too. He doesn't remember home, but Mirmulnir whispers to him of warm packed earth and a cradle of dirt and stone. There is plenty of room for all three of them.

_Drip drip drip._

 

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Larjan was the middle child - two older siblings, two younger. There was another daughter at one point, but she had been stillborn.

When he had been about seven years old, his oldest brother had taken it upon him to swim. _What was his name?_   Kjern. He's having trouble remembering the details of his life. He took after their father, more so than Larjan.Green eyes, devious smile. They went down to the river - at this time, their father hadn't yet exiled them all to the wilderness, so it was a river much smaller than the White River. Kjern said he could hold his breath in the river longer than him. Larjan kept his head underwater until it felt like someone had shoved a dagger in between his ribs, and then he surfaced desperately.

Kjern was nowhere to be found. Larjan panicked, flailed his arms in the river and screaming until his fingertips grasped at hair, and pulled. It was a wonder none of the other villagers came racing. Kjern was yelling before his entire head was even out of the water.

"What'd you do that for? I could have kept going!"

"I thought you were drowned," Larjan had cried, tears already springing to his eyes. He was younger, impressionable.

"Don't be stupid. Your brain won't let you do that. It'll force you to get out of the water and breathe before you go unconscious. Nords like us aren't that easy to kill!"

Kjern was right, though not in a way he likely expected. Larjan's brain doesn't let him hold his breath long enough to suffocate. Elenwen finds him blue in the face one day and thinks it's hilarious. One of the guards hits the hilt of a sword to his stomach and Larjan is forced to exhale. He doubles over as far as the manacles allow him, bent over his body in a pathetic attempt to shield it.

A few hours later he pisses blood. Elenwen heals his crushed abdomen with a strangely gentle look on her face, prodding softly at his sunken stomach until she's satisfied there's no more internal bleeding. Almost motherly. Larjan stares blankly ahead as she finishes with her magic and slits the guard's throat outside the cell. _Punishment for unnecessary brutality_ , she calls it. On Larjan's back, the dead skin seared in the silhouette of the Altmer eagle prickles.

 

....................................................................................................................................................................................

 

One day, he sees Istha. She walks through the bars of his cell like a ghost, flickering immaterially as flesh slides through cold metal. He raises his head desperately, all at once seeking some remnant of kindness from the familiar face and mistrusting her intentions and existence, sure this is just another of Elenwen's tricks. Istha crouches in front of him, blinking her large red eyes right in front of his pale ones and reaching out to stroke his cheek.

He flinches as the soft grey hand touches the bruised skin under the thick tangle of a beard he's grown, but Istha's fingers are as gentle as they are firm. He wants to say something, wants to beg his freedom, but the gag choking back his tongue prevents any speech.

Istha leans in, ever so slowly, and kisses his blood-stained cheekbone, and then the bridge of his nose, and then her fingers slip the gag off and she kisses his mouth. She tastes like blood.

"You know what to do," she whispers in his ear, and he shivers as he feels her breath on the side of his neck.

"Istha," he rasps, and its the first sound he's made in what feels like weeks. She taps a finger to his lips, almost as though scolding him, and rises to her feet. He makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, tries to follow her as she turns and walks through the bars, but the manacles remain as present as ever.

... _Or not_ , Larjan suddenly realizes as he watches her disappear into the void. If it weren't for the noticeable silence, he might confuse this dream for reality. As it is, he waits for the sound of dripping water to return.

 

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The Etienne man is not a Blade. Larjan knows this. But the man hiding in the sewers under Riften is. Larjan doesn't remember what the point was before, but he knows the Blades are important. He must protect the man in the sewer.

Etienne is nearly dead. They have to move quickly. Larjan raises his head stiffly, taking care not to move quickly enough to disturb the healing scabs on his neck. Whatever really occurred in Larjan's delirium, one fact remains true: the gag is loose. He won't make the same mistake a second time. When the guards are gone, he speaks.

"Etienne," he says. Tries to. There is no sound. He tries several more times. Finally, his vocal chords respond. "Etienne."

"I told you, I don't know anything," the other prisoner moans. Larjan grinds his teeth on the gag.

"Etienne. I'm getting us out of here."

"No one gets out," he says miserably.

"I will. I'm getting out. I need your help," Larjan says. Etienne doesn't respond for several hours. When he does, Larjan smiles. It is not a happy smile. It is a smile twisted by pain and cruelty, ready to unleash pain and cruelty of its own. In the corner of the cell, water continues to drip.

_Drip drip drip._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It physically pained me to write this chapter. 
> 
> In case you think I altered the main storyline purely to give Larjan grief and gain your sympathy:  
> Larjan began his return to Skyrim full of strength and confidence that made it easier for him to pretend he doesn't have to deal with his fears and the mistakes he's made in the last few years. Istha is his complete opposite in that she's TOO aware of her problems, and she's been running from them for so long that she can't see her potential.  
> As long as both of them kept shying away from hardship, neither of them was going to be able to grow. The obvious solution, then, was to force both characters to face exactly what they fear the most, and let it push them as close as possible to the breaking point. This is the start of Larjan's breaking point. I'm not doing this just because I have a keyboard and I can. It's critical to both his character and the continuation of the story.
> 
> On a slightly lighter note, any one catch onto the identity of Larjan's first prisonmate? Sorry Malborn, this is payback for the seven different saves it took me to finally manage to rescue you from the Thalmor, you ungrateful bastard.  
> The Khajiit girl is one of my OCs in an alternate universe where she isn't Dragonborn, and Etienne is, well, Etienne Rarnis.


	18. I - Not a Game Anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter happens almost two months before the end of Larjan's last one!  
> There are timeskips in the next few chapters, but I'll make them as clear as possible.

 

**Two months previously - hours after Istha's last recount.**

  
Istha wakes to find Cynric still laying haphazardly over her. His head is nestled in the curve of her bare shoulder, his breath warms her neck. She looks to the side to see a mildly uncomfortable Rune making his bed - so that's what woke her up.

"I'm not looking," he says hastily when he glances at her and sees her awake. Istha merely grins toothily and wiggles her fingers at his retreating back before letting them weave back into Cynric's brown hair. He is markedly less rough in his sleep, she notes. But she doesn't mind his nature when he's awake. This is familiar to her - reminiscent of the kinds of men she'd seek in Morrowind before everything went to Oblivion. This is what she likes - not softness. Cynric stirs and murmurs something - the resulting motion rubs his beard against her skin and she squeaks, feeling tickled. He wakes up at this, raising his head to grin sleepily at her.

"Don't like being tickled?" he asks. Istha shakes her head, and of course in response he ducks his chin and scrapes the offending beard along her collarbone. He's heavier than her, but not too heavy. She manages to push him off of her and onto the Cistern's damp stone floor. He groans and she pulls the blankets against her body as she stands to collect her discarded armour, leaving him stark naked on the ground.

"Did you just kick me out of my own bed, woman?" he asks, looking incredibly disgruntled. She shrugs and pats the pockets of his chest armour. When she finally finds her Goldenglow bill, she retrieves it with one last wink in his direction and waltzes off. Mercer Frey is standing over his table the way he always is, supported by tense arms as he glares down at the Guild's business ledger like it personally murdered his entire family. She shouldn't joke about things like that - she knows nothing about the man. Maybe he had a younger sibling who was killed by a falling book.

She tosses the bill onto the ledger and waits for Mercer to respond. He wrinkles his nose and lifts the paper up from one corner with two fingers. The look of disgust on his face is familiar to her - it's the one he wears when he looks at her. She's still not entirely sure what her race and gender has to do with it, has only ever gotten a single name and vague expressions of unease from anyone who brings up the topic.

"This is in disgusting condition," Mercer says finally, his green eyes finally finding Istha's face. She tries to remain impassive. What's she supposed to say? They're thieves. He's the one who sent her to crawl through some sewer. Mercer sighs as he unfolds the bill and taps his finger on the small sign at the bottom of the contract. He looks troubled. She wonders if he's physically capable of smiling. Even she can smile! Sometimes.

"Go put some clothes on," Mercer says, frowning at the fact that she's still only wearing Cynric's blankets wrapped around her. "And stop sleeping with my Guild."

Istha would bet all the gold she's made with the Guild so far that if he'd slept with Cynric, he wouldn't want to stop either. She departs his presence quite happily, heading to her own assigned bed in the Cistern. Getting dressed under the blankets is difficult and awkward, but it's not the first time she's had to do this since she joined the Guild. There's not much privacy in the Cistern, which sometimes makes for... interesting encounters. Once everything important is covered up, she stands and hooks her bow over her shoulder and wanders off in search of something to do. Goldenglow was good practice, as were the hours spent fiddling with locks under Vex's supervision, but the Cistern tends to feel stuffy after a while. She wants some air. Maybe she'll do some hunting and sell the meat to Marise in the marketplace.

She emerges into Riften from the entrance in the graveyard, and the now-familiar smell of dew and fish hits her nostrils. She didn't like Riften at first, but a couple of nights spent in the Flagon while Brynjolf was waxing poetic have convinced her - at least partially - that it's not so bad. There's a certain charm about her crooked (in more ways than one) streets and shady alleys.

A distant roar interrupts her musings and has her limbs frozen in place. All around her, people in the marketplace still their movement and conversation and look up to the sky. Several agonizing moments pass, and Istha hears it again. She knows that sound. She knows it far too well.

"Dragon!" someone inevitably yells, and the town is plunged into chaos. Istha climbs up the trellis again, onto the same roof she stood from when she first tried to intercept Cynric and Sapphire. Now her quarry is significantly larger. Even from a distance, she can see the great winged lizard circling in the mountains to the Southwest. Riften is a tinderbox waiting to burst into flame.

The dragon roars again, and this time turns its sights to Riften. Istha unhooks her bow grimly as it approaches, and readies a fireball in her other hand. Fireballs are exhausting and take a lot of concentration, but they've got a large range and she'll hopefully be able to cause the dragon some damage before it gets too close. They don't necessarily have to kill it, but they need to keep it away from the town.

She sets her fireball loose, aiming for the thin leathery membrane on the dragon's wings. It misses by a long shot, and she grits her teeth and tries again as the creature wheels around, searching for her. This time she manages to hit it full in the face - flashy, but not a good idea in the long run. It roars again, and this time the strength of its breath makes the boats docked in the waterway rock violently. At the sound, the long-dormant dragon in Istha's chest awakens and paces around her soul expectantly. No, she tells her. Her _dovah's_ name is _Veniizahkrin_ , and she longs to push the rival dragon out of the sky. Not here, Istha says. Her _dovah_ soul snarls a sad protest as the dragon opens its mouth and swoops above town. Istha lets an arrow fly into the beast's neck as an icy stream of frost blankets the thankfully-evacuated marketplace. From the walls, Riften's guards have adopted the same strategy, while those with close-combat weapons run around in frustration on the ground and try to avoid the icy blasts. She almost laughs. Frost, she can deal with. It's still just as deadly to a human as fire, but at least the town won't go up in flames. 

The wounded beast in the sky above her screeches its protest as the rain of arrows eventually forces it down, and Istha runs along the rooftop towards the edge of town as it lands heavily by the lake outside the walls. There are guards already there, guards with swords and waraxes and heavy steel that do far greater damage than her arrows. Before Istha has a chance to leave the rooftop, the dragon is already roaring its last breaths. The smile in her face fades as its body thuds against the ground with violent finality, and she realizes what its death means for her.

 _No_ , she begs as she shimmies down a waterpipe and ducks down an alley. _No, not here. Not with this many people._ She hides behind a stack of crates like she can protect herself from it, but the inevitable harsh white light finds her anyway, streaming over the town walls and through twisting streets until it finds her. She can't breathe. She chokes for a moment as Veniizahkrin battles with the newcomer, until the two _dovah_ souls find their balance in her body. Odnahstrun's memories are filled with bloody battles and powerful Shouts, Shouts she doesn't yet understand. She draws her knees up to her chin and wraps her arms tightly around her, rocking back and forth with quiet sobs.

She's not ready for this. She thought she was, after speaking with Paarthurnax, but she's not ready. She doesn't want to be Dragonborn. Why can't Larjan carry the burden of dragon souls alone?

Cynric finds her crying in the alleyway hours later. He draws her away from the wall and into his lap with more tenderness than she would have expected from a man like him, and strokes her dark hair as the sobs quiet into silent tears.

"The guards say you were very brave," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Istha shakes her head. "It's all right. I nearly pissed myself too. If you weren't overwhelmed after that, well, you'd be some kind of superhuman."

Istha only burrows her face into the worn leather of his armour and tries not to laugh bitterly at the irony.

"Mallory wants me to do some job in Markarth," Cynric says. "We call it the Bedlam Challenge. What do you think? Time to get out of Fish Central?"

Istha hesitates. On one hand, she still has a lot to learn from her other trainers in the Guild. On the other, she really does want to get away from Riften and Odnahstrun's still bones, and Cynric's a talented thief and teacher himself. She nods with a hesitant smile, and he pulls her to her feet none-too-gently.

"The city of blood and silver," he says. "You're going to love it, and so are the Guild's coffers."

 

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_Brelyna -_

_Watch out for Ancano. Considering I've managed to walk under the Thalmor's gaze for a while now, I think we got away with our little incident after Fellglow. But I want you to be careful anyway - I don't trust them any further than the length of Onmund's nose._

_Take your time with the crazy scholar. I need to get some things figured here anyway before I'm ready to go on._

_\- Istha._

 

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Istha is having trouble deciding if Cynric is a braggart and an obnoxious liar or simply an extraordinary man. She'd known about his past occupation before, of course, he'd mentioned it in passing when showing her how to listen for the click of a lock - but the grand stories he tells to pass the agonizingly long journey to Markarth are simply ridiculous. He's broken out of every single prison in Skyrim at least twice? Preposterous.

"Not every single one," Cynric admits. "There's one last one, but... I haven't got the nerve to try it after my last three year stint. In Skyrim the Holds track their crime separately, you see, but sometimes if a Commander hates you enough... They threatened to cut my hands off if I got caught again, or else I might have tried my hand at Cidhna Mine just for the thrill of it."

Istha scoffs as though asking how hard it can be to escape from a mine. In response, Cynric turns in the saddle of his illegally-acquired dappled mare and gives her a dazzling smile.

"Want to let them throw you in and try it yourself?" he asks. Istha shakes her head quickly and suppresses a smile at his resulting chuckle. "It's legendary, is what it is. The Silver-Blood family controls it. You go in, you don't come out until they say so. No one escapes from Cidhna Mine."

He's been to Markarth before, and describes it to her in vivid detail. The more he speaks of glitter waterfalls and the stone city that rests upon the ruined riches of another, the more she aches to reach it. But it's on the opposite side of Skyrim from Riften, and the going is especially slow once they head into Legion-controlled territory. Istha worries at first that Cynric will question her fear of the Imperial patrols they sometimes need to make wide detours around, but he accepts it without further comment.

An advantage of company with thieves - no one's ashamed of a shady past. She's not willing to get into Helgen with him yet, because then the Dragonborn business will follow all too quickly and she's simply not ready for that.

 

............................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

 

Markarth is... unexpectedly bloody. She thought Cynric was exaggerating when he named it the city of blood and silver, but to wander in through the front gates only to watch a murder unravel before their eyes is shocking even for her hardened conscience. It's the screams that get to her. Istha doesn't give her enemies time to scream, and that alone allows her such guilt-free kills.

The victim doesn't have time to make a sound before the man that leaps at her tears her throat open with a dull knife, but the jewellery vendor beside her does - and then she just doesn't stop. Istha presses close to Cynric, her nostrils flaring at the sharp scent of metal as guards descend on the thrashing man and he falls limp. It's hard to tell where the vendor's pool of blood ends and his starts.

"Come on," Cynric murmurs, and pulls her into a nearby building before she can gather her wits properly. Istha leans into his arm and they both cast a wary look around what she realizes is an inn. A few curious heads turn their way as Cynric pulls her to the counter, but after only a few seconds they look away disinterestedly. It looks like Markarth is used to... excitement.

"You get used to it," Cynric says in a low voice as he discretely pushes aside his travelling cloak and fishes out a few gold coins from the Guild amour's many pockets. Istha's wearing a simple white tunic overtop to hide the tell-tale armour, but when she offered him one he had scoffed at her, and now watching him try to pull out items without revealing himself to the innkeeper amuses her. She leans her head against his shoulder as he pays the innkeeper for dinner and a room.

"Shut up," he mutters as they walk up a stone staircase and discard their belongings on the bed. Istha merely gives Cynric a crooked little smile and mouths _'I didn't say anything.'_ Her pack is feather-light, as is Cynric's, but Vex and Delvin have challenged them to come home with far more than they left with and they intend to follow through.

"I'm going to go scout the exits," her partner in crime says, and before Istha can nod her agreement he's already gone. She pulls out a spell-book that Rune gave to her in Riften, claiming she might find it interesting, and drifts over to the entrance of the inn where patrons and residents alike sit and chat. She settles in the corner with her book, planning to eavesdrop and maybe catch an interesting rumour that will lead her and Cynric to gold, but soon becomes engrossed in Rune's book. As she expected, the magic is far above her current training, but the spell-book explains it so nicely...

Her fingers twitch. _Perhaps just a little try?_ She props the book up in front of her and hides her hand behind it, where none of the inn's other customers will be able to see it. Then, with great concentration, she wills her hand to disappear. It shimmers lightly and she squeaks as the tips of her fingers become invisible and the effect slowly creeps up her forearm. She releases the spell with relief and her hand returns. She flexes it curiously, and blinks as a headache starts to settle between her temples. She groans. Of course, such is the price of draining her magical energy too quickly.

A sudden light touch on her neck has her jumping up, a firebolt already charging in her right palm, but it is only Cyrnic, who laughingly pushes her back down into the chair and sweeps her long hair aside.

"I got you a little something," he whispers. Istha looks down as cold metal settles against her chest, and picks up the gold-framed ruby with gentle fingers. "I thought it matched you," Cynric continues, fastening the necklace behind her neck and trailing his fingers up to her jaw. "Red for your eyes, gold for your paint. And you thought I couldn't be romantic?"

Istha giggles quietly and turns her head to shush him before he starts going on about a familiar topic of banter between them - _buying is boring, stealing something gives it a unique story! Thievery is romantic! How do you think I get all the ladies (and the occasional man)?_

"Where did you find something like this?" she asks quietly.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he says with a chuckle, and bends down to kiss her cheek. A peculiar strangling sound coming from across the inn makes her jerk away to see the disturbance, and her eyes focus on two Dunmer watching her with matching shocked expressions. The man's face is sharp and chiselled, like her own. Long, perfectly straight black hair and a small goatee that is equally as dark, and a build that rivals that of a Nord. The woman is smaller in height but no less strong, her curves and girlish features hiding a deadly combination of muscle and agility. Istha knows those two faces far too well.

"Cynric." Istha says urgently.

"Yes?" he inquires as she stands, slamming the book shut with one hand and grabbing his wrist with the other.

"We need to leave."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the two Dunmer stand in unison, their movements fluid with time and experience. Cynric doesn't argue as she yanks him towards the exit, not even complaining about the belongings that still remain in their room. This is why she likes him. But the door opens before they even reach it, and a courier steps through with an escort of guards that has the two thieves both on edge. Istha tucks the necklace into her shirt quickly and gives Cynric a despairing look - of all the times for him to get caught stealing! - but when the courier clears his throat and begins to read off a piece of parchment, she realizes they are caught up in something far greater than petty crime.

"By the order of the beloved Jarl of Markarth, in response to recent misunderstandings: All Breton residents must report to Cidhna Mine until their name is cleared from the list of suspected Forsworn sympathizers. We assure you that the matter will be treated with the utmost..."

Istha stops listening as her blood runs cold, and Cynric grips her hand tight enough that it hurts. There's no way Cynric can pass as anything but pure-blood Breton, not with his looks and short stature. Istha's lips move soundlessly as they tear him from her, until she finally finds her voice and starts defending him.

"He's done nothing wrong!" she pleads, following the guards outside as they drag out all the inn's Breton inhabitants. "And he's just a traveller, not a citizen! Let him go and we'll leave right now. No trouble for you!"

"Go rut with a Forsworn if you're this desperate for a white-skinned lover, Dark Elf," a guard spits, knocking her aside.

"Istha!" Cynric shouts, craning his head over his shoulder even though the guards and pushing him down the street. "Go back to Riften, get Mercer! He can clear everything up!"

It's hopeless. Istha stands forlornly after the guards, left alone in a dark street as the commotion dies down. Two more guards, pausing on their nearby patrol, spit after the parade of Breton prisoners.

"Forsworn savages! I hope the lot of them are executed within the week," the woman exclaims as they round the corner. Istha feels like she is a child again, wants to curl up into a ball and cry. Despite Cynric being a higher rank in the Guild than she is, and therefore perfectly entitled to give her orders to follow, she knows she can't return to Riften without him. The trip to Markarth took them nearly two weeks. By the time she returns with Mercer, Cynric could have died ten times over, not just executed but killed in the mine. Among real Forsworn, he'll have no allies if a short argument turns into a violent brawl. And what if Mercer can't help?

 _Breathe_ , she tells herself. _Cynric knows what he's doing. He made it this far without you and he'll keep going when you're gone._ But she's painfully aware of the fact that not even he's ever broken out of a prison like Cidhna mine. No, she has to act. She bows her head as quiet footsteps sound behind her and chain mail clicks together.

"A human lover? Really, Rivnye? I mean, you've proved that you have terrible taste in men, but this is a new low even for you."

"Hello Tsanvis," Istha says with a sigh, slowly turning to face the Dunmer man that has followed her outside. He strikes an imposing figure in his rich golden armour, but she is not scared. "How's that poor bastard Norvin, by the way? Still nursing his destroyed reputation?"

"A man like Norvin? Sera, he had a new lover a fortnight after you left Morrowind. Took the scandal in stride, you'd never know he was accused of such a thing by looking at his strut. You know what he's like. Our mother, on the other hand-"

"Your mother," Istha corrects without a flicker of emotion.

" _Our_ mother!"

"I have no mother. The Larketh family saw to that," Istha says.

"Are you just going to forget that she raised you for nearly a century? By Boethiah, Rivnye, when did you become such a cold-hearted _bitch_?"

Istha drops into a defensive stance, a warning flame flickering in her outstretched hands as Tsanvis starts towards her. Seeing the fire he takes a reluctant step back, but she can still see his fists clenched at his sides. She's not surprised he wants to strangle her right now, but she'll be damned if she gives him the pleasure of doing so before she rescues Cynric.

At that very moment another Elf pops up at Tsanvis' side, a little bit out of breath but nearly bouncing in excitement.

"I followed the guards," she exclaims, panting between short phrases. "To the jail. That man of yours, he's got an impressive right hook - Oh, but they knocked him unconscious for struggling. Think he'll be okay? By the way it's nice to see you Rivnye, how are you?"

Istha gives a start.

"Unconscious?" _Oh, this is not good, not good at all._ "I've got to get him out of there," she frets.

"No, you need to get back to Morrowind. You're coming with us and that's final. You've been on the run for over a year already, isn't that enough adventure for you?"

"I am not leaving my friend to rot in a prison," Istha seethes. "And stop trying to hunt me down! When are you going to get the point? I never wants to see your faces again."

The female Dunmer's smile slides straight off her round, pretty face. "But we've been best friends our whole lives, Rivnye," she says, her eyebrows furrowed together with hurt and confusion. "You taught me my first spell, and I held your hair the first time you vomited up sujama. You can't just..."

Istha turns away. There is a stone in her throat, a growing and insistent rock that she can't swallow down.

"Stop calling me that, Enda. I'm not Rivnye. I don't know who I am, but not her. Rivnye Larketh is someone your husband's-" she snarls, jerking her head towards a fuming Tsanvis with that last word. "-Mother made up because she wanted a daughter and thought she could pretend any little orphan was hers for the taking."

"It's not like that..." Tsanvis says sadly. Enda bounds forward, her lithe gray fingers grabbing Istha's arm as she tries to flee. Istha shakes the other woman off violently.

"Please, Rivnye, just give it a thought-"

But there is no longer any Rivyne. Or an Istha, for that matter. Enda clutches at thin air.

"Rivnye!" Tsanvis bellows, running forward to grab onto Enda's shoulders as though his wife might vanish as well if he doesn't hold onto her. The two Dunmer cast wild looks about them, searching the shadows for their lost friend. "Rivyne! Rivyne!"

Eventually a guard pokes his head around the corner and threatens to skewer them if they don't shut their traps and stop waking the entire city. They retreat to the inn to rethink their plan.

 

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A short distance away, deeper into the city and up a stone staircase, Istha rematerializes. She falls to her hands and knees with a groan, and promptly throws up. She can't tell whether it's more due to nausea or nervousness, but suspects both have a hand in her present misery.  _And, of course, severe magic level depletion._ She should be proud of herself for managing a working invisibility spell in such a short time, but the pounding headache demanding her attention and the dizziness that makes her tilt to the side tells her she has a long way to go before she masters it. She groans again at the spill on the ground in front of her, and nearby someone chuckles.

She scrambles to her feet, wiping her mouth on her sleeve, only to see that it's just a beggar in torn clothes and scruffy keeping. He laughs again and chucks the empty bottle in his right hand at her. It misses by a long shot and keeps rolling, eventually coming to a halt against an ornate door. Istha's eyes drift to the sign above the door.

 _The Hag's Cure_ , she thinks to herself. An apothecary. There is a tiny carving in the stone wall near her knee; a circle with many stacked rectangles. _A shadowmark_ , she realizes. _Loot._ Looks like all the hours spent drilling with Mallory have paid off. A plan begins to form almost immediately in her head, giving her something to think about other than the fact that the world is still a little bit tilted.

She looks up and down the street, and then promptly knocks the beggar out with a much-deserved punch. No one throws a bottle at her without her permission.

She stands in front of the apothecary and rubs her hands together for warmth. There are lockpicks tucked into her boots and her felt and in the linen wrappings that bind her chest. She could probably make an entire ingot out of them if she melted them together. And she has all night.

It's time for the greatest heist in Markarth's history.

 

............................................................................................................................................................................................................

_Istha -_

_Well, I sneaked past Ancano found the scholar hiding in some ice cave even further North than the College. Istha, I'm not really sure about this... He's completely bonkers. From what I can understand of his gibberish, this Elder Scroll is an immensely powerful relic from outside of time itself._

_I don't think this is something we should be trifling with, even if you are, well, you know. I'd really recommend that we leave this venture alone, Azura forbid you become as insane as Septimus._

_Something tells me that you won't listen to me, and I can't keep this secret from you, so I'll tell you that Septimus claims the Elder Scroll is in a Dwemer ruin called Aftland. But please, Istha. Just... think about what I've said. The other students and I have learned recently that some things aren't worth the danger, no matter how interesting and captivating they appear at first..._

_\- Brelyna._

_P.S. I won't be able to send any letters for a week or two - we're making a trip South to a Dwemer ruin of our own. Stay out of trouble until I get back to you, okay?_

 

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Morning finds Istha crouched near the entrance to the jail, her bow balancing on her knees as she watches the soldiers below with keen red eyes. There seems to be no shortage to the prisoners they are escorting to the Mine. It looks like the last murder has really made the Silver-Bloods crack down. They come like clockwork every half-hour or so, with one or two cursing Breton prisoners at a time.

There is another one crossing over the bridge. This is her target. Istha touches the neat row of tiny white potions aligned on her chest in what are technically dagger straps. She's been checking on them obsessively all morning, just to reassure herself that she's going through with this. She takes a deep breath, and casts an invisibility spell. Immediately her stomach begins to protest, but at least she can hold down her meagre breakfast this time. She's been practising all night and she thinks she can keep the constant concentration required going in long enough bursts to get her through the plan.

She half-stumbles down the stairs emerging from the alcove to the Overseer's house that hid her from the guard's view while she observed, and sneaks closer as silent as a sabre-cat. She's just in time to follow the latest prisoner in through the gaping hole in the side of the mountain. No one's noticed anything yet. She can do this.

Istha follows the prisoner escort at a short distance, struggling not to lose concentration or the contents of her stomach. The ground underneath her muffled feet is stony and uneven, a veritable hazard for someone as nauseous as she. They emerge into a wider cavern, and Istha's spirits fall as the prisoner is led up a wooden ramp and across a rope bridge. The bridge wobbles with every new shift in weight, and she has to hurry to catch up to the prisoner escort and walk across it as close to them as possible. Even so, a woman who stands by the ramp narrows her eyes in Istha's direction and rests her hand on the hilt of her sword.

She suddenly realizes that these are not town guards who have never seen action. These are mercenaries, and infinitely more dangerous for their experience.

Istha follows quietly, trying to ignore the rising panic inside of her, until she comes to the gate that prisoners are being thrown in. An Orc woman in heavy, ungainly steel armour leans against the wall here, glowering at the whimpering Breton man being dragged forward. There are at least five mercenaries that she can see nearby, maybe others hidden in the small passages that lead off from this one.

"All right, prisoner. Eyes front. You're in Cidhna Mine, now. And we expect you to earn your keep. There's no resting your hide in a cell in this prison. Here, you work. You'll mine ore until you start throwing up silver bars. You got it?" she drawls. As the new prisoner breaks down into sobs, Istha leaps up and grabs onto the wooden rafters that support the dirt ceiling above them. There's a small space left between the wood and the cold rock, and she hoists herself into that with trembling arms.

Finally well-hidden, she can afford to let the spell end. She slumps against the wood as the invisibility sapping her energy fades, and closes her eyes to ward against the resulting nausea. One of Cynric's favourite pieces of advice was "When in doubt, go up. No one ever looks up," and she's willing to trust that but only to a certain degree. She's quite sure that if she vomited on a passing mercenary's head, they'd look up, and then everything would be for naught.

After several minutes, she feels like she can finally think straight, and wriggles in her uncomfortable hiding spot until she can slip a hand into one of her many pockets. She drinks the entire blue vial. She's going to need a lot of magic for this next part. Everything about this plan hinges on luck - she's running into this mission practically blind. She prays to whatever Daedra or Divine is listening that the Guild's general misfortune doesn't extend to her, and shrouds herself with Illusion magic once again. Then, before the dizziness can take root, she quietly lets herself down from the rafter, her feet dangling slightly above the ground. Her landing is not silent given the circumstances, but the mercenaries are distracted by one of their number pulling out a deck of cards.

She doesn't blame them. She doesn't think people even try to escape Cidhna mine anymore.

Well, it's time to make history.

There are two gates for her to make it past: the Orc woman guards a barred compartment of sorts in between them, likely a last resort in case a prisoner makes it past one gate. Each prisoner is taken through the first gate, which is securely locked behind them before the second is opened and they are shoved inside. They are never open at the same time. Istha grudgingly admits that it's a good system. Unfortunately, it means she will have to stand in an enclosed space with the Orc woman and wait for the process to roll out with the next prisoner, all while maintaining her spell.

What's that the Nords always say? Victory or Sovngarde? She'll never set eyes on Sovngarde, being a Dunmer, but she figures she's going to break Cynric out or die trying.

Her head spins as she tails the next prisoner into the compartment, and once she's in she presses herself to the dirt wall behind her so no one bumps into what looks like thin air. Her breathing seems too loud, far too loud for the mine's stale atmosphere, and she very nearly plugs her nose to keep from breaking down into terrified hysterics and revealing herself. But magic requires her brain to have oxygen, so she forces her panicked lungs to co-operate to a rhythm she deems practical as the second gate is unlocked. She throws herself through before the prisoner has a chance to react, terrified of being locked into the compartment again, and narrowly escapes a head-first tumble down the unexpected drop. There's a dirt path off to the side, and she follows this instead. Cidhna Mine is not as crowded as she'd expect from the amount of prisoner she's seen being escorted, but this only means that she has more ground to cover.

Istha feels like her legs are going to give out from underneath her, so she ducks down the first passage to the left and releases her spell as soon as she's out of sight from the group gathered around the fire in the first chamber. She relishes every breath with closed eyes, and it is only a quiet curse that alerts her to the fact that she's been seen. Istha's eyes fly open, catching sight of the bearded man staring open-mouthed at her, pickaxe forgotten.

She leaps forward suddenly and clamps onto the front of the man's dirty tunic, dragging him backward into her passage. He's weak and shaky despite being larger than her, and doesn't struggle as she forces him up against the wall and presses a dagger to his throat.

"You scream, you die. I'm looking for a Breton man named Cynric Endell," she hisses into his ear. "Blue eyes, brown hair, big jaw, about your height."

The man stammers weakly and gestures with his arm vaguely to the left. Istha thanks him and slits his throat. She hides the man's body as best as she can in the back of the passage, and takes a deep swig of another magicka potion before recasting invisibility. The effort seems a little bit easier every time, but not being able to see where she puts her feet still turns her stomach.

It takes her only a few minutes to find Cynric, but he's not alone.

Istha grits her teeth when she sees Enda bent over at his side, hacking away at the mine walls like she's mined her entire life. Still, nothing can be done about it, and she steps forward, quietly coming to a halt nearby.

"Cynric," she whispers. "Cynric."

He doesn't hear, but Enda does, her pointed ears twitching as she turns. With a sigh, Istha lets her Illusion fall. Credit given to Enda, she doesn't scream, but instead grins at her old friend and elbows Cynric roughly.

"What?" he grumbles, straightening his back to look at his prisonmate, and Istha watches his face go through irritation to shock to delight to anger as he turns to see what Enda is smiling at.

"Istha!" he mutters, letting the pickaxe fall. "What in Oblivion are you doing here?"

"Jailbreaking," Istha says grimly. "Except I only came prepared for one," she adds with a pointed look at Enda. The other Dunmer woman merely shrugs and keeps mining to disguise the fact that Cynric has stopped and seems to have no intention of starting again. He motions for Istha to come closer, and she nervously creeps forward, hiding in the shadows that his and Enda's bodies cast. Despite his evident anger, there's a grudging admiration in his blue eyes that makes her smile.

"Your nose is bleeding," he says, his eyes flickering downwards. She wipes the offending blood away with the back of her hand.

"It's fine. Just a bit too much magic cast in too short a time."

"How'd you get in?" he asks quietly. The sounds of mining all around easily hide their conversation.

"The same way you got in, except I was invisible and uninvited," Istha says. "We're getting out the same way. I can cast a spell on myself, and for you I have potions. I completely cleared out The Hag's Cure. If the labels are accurate, we have just under six minutes to get you out with me," she says, tapping the white vials shoved through her dagger straps. Her gaze drifts to Enda and she bites her lip as she tries to consider this uncalculated variable.

"What are you even doing here?" Istha asks her eventually. Enda smiles sheepishly.

"Tsanvis figured that if we worked together to break your friend out, you would forgive us and come back to Morrowind," she says with a quiet sigh. "So I punched a guard in the face, figured I'd use my magic to wreck havoc and get us out while Tsanvis made a distraction. Except they stuffed a magicka poison down my throat and Tsanvis just disappeared."

Istha's hand drifts to her outer thigh, where two more replenishing magicka potions remain. On one hand, leaving Enda in prison would effectively strand Tsanvis as well, who wouldn't go after Istha with his wife still stuck underground. But as heartless as she is, she cannot leave her childhood best friend to die. With a sigh, she pulls out the first of the blue bottles and hands it over.

"Do you know any invisibility spells?" Istha asks. Enda shakes her head and downs the bottle before Istha can take it back. She swallows, making a face at the taste, and raises her hand. A small clump of ice forms above her palm, and she gives it a grim smile.

"No," Enda says. "But I can calm or aggravate the guards. Which would work better?"

"Not sure," Istha says, deflating slightly. She fingers the little white vials at her chest, and only one conclusion seems available. "You'll have to split the potions. I want to get us out without the guards ever catching on. I don't want to be chased all the way back to Riften."

"Morrowind," Enda supplies helpfully.

"Riften," Istha says firmly. Cynric breaks in to prevent an argument.

"Istha, if you can pull this off..." he trails off, searching for the right words. "Well, no one has managed to break themselves out of Cidhna Mine, much less two other people as well. We'd be legends, if only we didn't have to keep it a secret."

Istha just sighs and shifts slightly in her hiding place.

"You can pat yourself on the back when we're out," she says grimly. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The best part about writing Skyrim fanfiction is that you can run around Markarth in-game, jotting down notes about everything and then get yourself thrown into jail on purpose - all in the name of accuracy. Research! There really is a Loot Shadowmark beside the Hag's Cure, which I found super cool.  
> If it feels like I'm rushing through plots, please tell me. I think I am, it's worrying. As always, thanks for reading!


	19. L - When the Cat's Away, the Mice Will Play

**A month and a half later - hours after Larjan's last recount.**

  
Larjan can tell when Elenwen is angry by her footsteps.

He begins to sweat before she even has his cell door open, shrinks into the wall as she throws the barred gate to the side and strides in. Her sharp fingers grab his jaw and force it up. He can only stare meekly into her narrowed orange eyes, too scared to breathe lest she notice how loose the gag is.

"Would you care to explain why my soldiers are hearing reports of a second Dragonborn?" the Altmer woman snarls. "Which one of you is a liar?"

Larjan can only shake his head and try to melt into the damp stone wall behind him. She scrutinizes him for another moment, and sweeps out without another word. Larjan can think of only two things as he finally allows himself to breathe again. _One._ Istha is going to get herself killed. _Two._ If he stays here any longer, he is going to get himself killed.

 

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Waiting for the right moment is surprisingly easy. That's all anyone does at Elenwen's parties. Wait. For the next time she lovingly picks up her tools, or for a raised hand sparking with magic, or for death. Whichever comes first.

Larjan has learned patience at the hands of the Thalmor. He knows what conditions he needs. One guard. One set of keys. Any more, and the matter is beyond his failing strength. The answer blazes in his mind for a long time. Sahloknir is a good teacher, persistent and unyielding. When his opportunity comes, he tells Larjan to strike.

_Feim!_

He is ethereal, he is one with the void. Larjan's hands pass through the manacles that have held him up for so long. The guard sitting at the nearby table gives a start at the sudden movement, stands and runs to the cell door. Larjan stands up, raises his hands in front of his face. He is there and yet not there. _Hurry_ , Sahloknir whispers. _It is temporary. You must time this perfectly._

Larjan passes through the guard as he fumbles for the ring of keys at his hips. The High Elf turns around with a soft cry, draws his sword. _20 seconds_ , Sahloknir whispers. _19\. 18. 17._ Larjan dodges every desperate swordstroke. _13\. 12. 11._

Everything hinges on the guard not running for help. _8\. 7. 6._ The element of hysteria is unexpectedly powerful.

 _3\. 2._ Larjan halts right where Sahloknir has instructed him, where they have rehearsed in his mind so many times, the obsessive attention to detail being the only thing that kept him going these past few days. The elven sword comes down in a swinging arc above Larjan's head. _1._ His hand comes into being again just above the impressive array of tools that rest on the table to his right, all polished and shining and arranged in neat rows. Larjan's fingers are numb. This is why it had to be his right side. He tightens his grip around the first tool he manages to grab, and steps forward. Arms up to block the Elf's downward strike not from the blade that would cut him, but from the elbow with a strike hard enough that the impact loosens the guard's grip on the sword. It falls harmlessly behind Larjan, already forgotten as he continues his momentum. The torture tool strikes through the eyehole of the guard's helmet, and remains there when the Elf drops like a stone.

Larjan feels weak. _Ahkrin,_ Mirmulnir reminds him sternly. _Courage._ _The keys are on the guard's hip._ He takes them, and Etienne flinches violently at the sound of their rattle. It takes several agonizing moments to figure out which key belongs to the cell door, and several more to actually open it because Larjan is shaking. The stress of the situation is too much for his starved body and mind.

He feels a little bit better once Etienne is out of the shackles. The burden of freedom is now shared between them as they help each other stand.

"That was a Shout," Etienne says, his eyes focused somewhere behind Larjan's head. He turns, expecting a Thalmor soldier. There is none.

"Yeah," Larjan says.

"Dragonborn?"

"Yeah. Thief?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I need you to open that chest," Larjan says, pointing to the wooden enclosure tucked under the table. He's seen the Thalmor store folder upon folder in there, and he knows what he wants.

"They took my lockpicks," Etienne says. Larjan wordlessly picks up the cloth that displays the torture tools and holds it out. The thief flinches violently as the sharp, shiny edges approach him, but selects two small knives all the same. While Etienne crouches in front of the chest and presses his ear to the lock as he fiddles with it, Larjan strips the armour off the dead guard. The Elf is taller than him and not quite as broad-chested, so the edges of the moonstone plates dig into his skin through the dirty linen tunic he wears underneath, but it will do. He hefts the elven sword in his good hand and likes that it feels more balanced in his hand than the ancient Nord one they confiscated. _The advantages of one-handed weapons over two handed._

He's never going to be able to hold a two-handed weapon again. He tries not to look at the stumps on his left hand, where Elenwen removed a knuckle for each of the seven weeks he spent here. _Injuries don't matter in the face of Sovngarde._ When the Thalmor come, he'll be ready.

Any whisper of anxiety he might have is immediately chased away by Mirmulnir and Sahloknir, whose presences have grown much stronger and bolder in the face of Larjan's new fragility. They circle around his mortal soul like vultures; not quite aggressive but no where near passive in their awareness that at the moment they are much stronger than him.

Finally Etienne gives a small cry of delight as the lock clicks. Larjan crouches next to him and lifts the lid up. There are at least a dozen dossiers inside, and he flips through them uncertainly until Etienne hands him one with shaking hands. It is titled simply 'Esbern'. He takes three more out of the mass in the chest: Delphine, Ulfric Stormcloak, and his own. _Larjan Son-Of-Silvereyes._ The latter he doesn't even bother to look out, just tosses it straight into the fire. He doesn't want to know.

"Go through the trapdoor," he tells Etienne in a soft and quiet voice. "Run, and don't look back."

"You're not coming?" the thief asks. He is pale, still trembling like a leaf in the wind. Larjan shakes his head.

"I have a party to crash," he says simply.

"You didn't have to help me, so... thanks," the Breton man says, and then he is gone through the trapdoor and Larjan is blazing a warpath through the men and women that have held him captive for so long.

 

...............................................................................................................................................................................................

 

 _Yol!_ Mirmulnir screams in Larjan's ear. _Please_ , he says in response. _Please, that's hurting me. I don't know what that means_. He saw the word in Dustman's Cairn, felt it burn into him there, but without a third dragon soul to provide him with understanding, it is foreign to him. The _dovah_ do not listen, forcing their own words through his throat. Larjan coughs constantly, smoke burning his lungs and throat and stinging his eyes. Despite his protests, they do not let him stop the fire.

 _You learn, or you die_ , Sahloknir snarls. Larjan learns. But gods, the teachings of _dov_ are painful when he doesn't have the memories of one to anchor them to. He summons Mirmulnir when he wants to force everything out of his way, and Sahloknir when he wants to reach out to the void. But when he ignites, he ignites himself, and burns along with his enemies.

 

...............................................................................................................................................................................................

 

General Tullius considers himself a level-headed man, one not easily unsettled. He's become legendary through Haafingar for keeping his head through the ordeal at Helgen and managing to get out with far fewer casualties than one would expect considering the size of that blasted dragon. But even his calm nature is disturbed now. He keenly feels the discomfort of his men and women as they ride up the snowy path to the Thalmor Embassy. They don't bother to hurry. This isn't a rescue mission - there's too much smoke. This is a trip to retrieve the bodies.

The fire is still burning when they arrive. Their patrol has a mage in its service - a young man from Solitude in shrouded robes. He turns nervously to Tullius as they dismount their horses at a safe distance.

"Sir," he says. "Sir, that's not mage-fire."

"What else burns this quickly?" the General asks, tiredly brushing the mage aside. He has no patience for the technicalities of crime. The Embassy is in flames - who cares what kind of flames? He picks his way through debris as the others fan out to cover more ground. The mage still seems to insist the remains of the inferno aren't caused by magic, but General Tullius finds fire burning on stone and wood indiscriminately. Natural fire doesn't do that - only magical fire. So if this isn't magical fire, then what is it?

They find their answer huddled in the centre, rocking back and forth in a clearing formed by bodies burnt beyond recognition. Despite the cold the man is dressed only in a dirty linen tunic, discarded elven armour all around him. There is a thin layer of snow on the man's head and shoulders. General Tullius raises the man's chin, looks into the bloodshot pale eyes sunken into the gaunt face. There is blood on the man's lips and dripping from his nose and ears. He has seen this face before, recognizes it despite the blood and grime and the feral look in his dilated pupils. First in Helgen, right before that Oblivion-damned dragon showed up, then on posters proclaiming the announcement of a new Thane of Whiterun, given the title after protecting the city from Skyrim's second dragon attack.

"Dragon-fire," Tullius whispers, his thumb hovering over the blisters and burns on the broken man's lips and jaw.

"Hello General Tullius," the man says, his voice hoarse with smoke. He coughs once, wincing as blood and spit flies out. "Fancy meeting you here."

Tullius stands and calls for attention. Four of his soldiers and the mage peel away from the rest, assigned to escort the Dragonborn to Solitude and defend him with their lives on the way.

"If you see her," the Dragonborn says as he is helped to his feet. "Tell her it's rude for a hostess not to attend her own party."

"I will," General Tullius says as the Dragonborn descends into a violent coughing bout, but in his mind he is already composing pleas and letters he will have to write when he reaches Solitude later tonight. He turns away, eyeing what remains of the Thalmor Embassy as the man is led away to a horse. _If the man can do this much destruction alone and half-crazed, what can he manage once he's cleaned up and part of a well-trained regiment?_   Tullius allows himself a grim smile as he scrutinizes the rubble. He will be having a talk with Elenwen when she returns from her trip to wherever it is she goes.

This changes things for Skyrim. If he had known earlier that she had the Dragonborn captive...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while to decide exactly how to portray the whole 'unlocking dragon shouts' thing, but what I eventually settled on as my personal headcanon is this:  
> 1) When one of the Dragonborn devours a soul, (s)he sees the entirety of its life and memories at will.  
> 2) The souls remain dormant for the majority of the time, but can be called upon for 'conversation', and also Shouting.  
> 3) A Word can be 'anchored' to a soul if the dragon was familiar with it in their lifetime, so that the Dragonborn can just call that specific dragon for the Shout they want.  
> 4) They can also use a Shout if they've learned the Word but don't have a soul to match it - in that case the Dragonborn's own mortal soul has to supply the energy to Shout and it takes a severe toll on the body instead of drawing energy from the immortal dragon souls. 
> 
> That seem reasonable?
> 
> Also, I know that walking through things isn't how the Become Ethereal Shout works, but. Uh. I took liberties. Sue me. 
> 
> One last thing: Like most people I pronounce J's in Skyrim as Y's. Jarl, Brynjolf, Jorrvaskr (though I have a friend who insists that it's "Whore-vask-er"...) but for some reason I've been calling Larjan in my head this entire time with a J instead of a Y. Now that I've realized my mistake, I've discovered I really dislike the name Larry. It's rather distressing to know you've been pronouncing your own character's name wrong for over a month. *sigh* I have so much trouble with male names. Istha was way easier to come up with.


	20. I - Initiative

They allow Istha one more hour to rest and regain her magic, and then it is time to go. Cynric and Enda conceal three vials of invisibility potion each as they meander towards the communal fire in the entrance chamber, and Istha follows behind, trying not to trip on any stray pickaxes or bodies, or bump into anyone else while invisible.

The other prisoners pay them no attention as they come to a halt at the base of the dirt ramp that leads up to the gate, though Istha casts a wary look around at the prisoners trying to warm themselves. They stand in a patch of darkness, hidden from the flickering light of nearly-consumed torches and the dwindling communal fire.

"Come on," she whispers, and no one pays any attention as Enda and Cynric follow her up the ramp. At the top, Istha stops them and peeks through the bars of the gate. The Orc woman has their back to them, and none of the other mercenaries are looking in this direction. Enda and Cynric quickly hurry to the other side of the gate, and press themselves to the wall there.

"How long before the next prisoner?" Cynric breathes, his lips so close to her ear that she needs to resist the urge to giggle at the strands of his beard tickling her.

"Too long," she says, and peers down at the circle of miners around the fire. She turns to Enda, pulling the other woman's head as close to her as possible. "Enda, can you make the prisoners attack each other?"

Enda nods and grimly steps forward, her hands glowing with quiet power. After a moment of concentration, one Breton woman below them stands up and clobbers the man beside her with the hilt of her pickaxe. Chaos ensues. Istha nods in approval as the mayhem draws the Orc woman's attention. She shouts at them to quiet down, and the first gate rattles. Istha gestures frantically at her two companions, who scramble to uncork their first potion. She doesn't let them drink just yet, waiting for the creak of the first gate. Only as the woman stomps into the chamber do they down the potions and vanish before Istha's eyes. They now have under three minutes to escape.

She has just enough time to make herself invisible as well before the Orc woman bursts through the second gate, pulling her weapon out with one hand and returning the gate keys to the belt on her hip. Istha snatches them without hesitation as she passes by, and prays to Azura that Cynric and Enda have followed her into the compartment.

The ring of keys, having not been touching Istha when she first cast the spell, does not suddenly turn invisible at her touch, and this minor annoyance makes her spell flicker. She gasps and casts it again, and this time the keys follow suit. With shaking hands, she fits the key into the gate's lock, and it clicks open. The other mercenaries remain sitting or standing in their usual places, though a few of them are looking over curiously, only mildly troubled by the noise the prisoners are making inside the mine. Istha bites her lip, holding the gate in place. _Time is ticking._

They will know something is going on as soon as the gate opens. She can only pray that they can outrun them.

"Run," she says quietly, and throws the gate open.

There are shouts of confusion, then mercenaries leaping to their feet - but Istha pays them no attention, focused only on sprinting forward as quickly as she can. There is the sound of pounding footsteps behind her, but she cannot look back to see if it is guards or the faintly visible forms of her partners in crime.

A woman blocks the bridge, her face panicked and her knuckles white on the handle of her war axe as she frantically tries to locate the sound of their footsteps. Istha's two inner dragons writhe in frustration, desperate to be allowed to lend their voice to the chaos, but Istha can't allow that - no one can know that a second Dragonborn exists. Holding the bloodthirsty _dovah_ back is enough of an effort to break Istha's concentration - the spell flickers. The guard raises her axe. Istha doesn't give her time - the blade of her dagger sinks through her unprotected throat and remains stuck there.

They keep running.

"Don't - drink the - last one yet," Istha says, panting. An affirmative noise just beside her lets her know that Cynric has heard, but there is no response from Enda. Istha halts and whirls around. "Enda?" she calls out to the dark tunnel. The shouting and clatter of many people running in metal armour is coming closer.

"Way ahead of you," Enda chuckles, and Istha breathes a sigh of relief as the other Dunmer woman flickers into existence nearby.

"Last potion just before the entrance," Istha instructs, and they are running again. The oval of bright light that signals their freedom is so bright that Istha can scarcely believe it is just Markarth and not some afterlife, but she just has to trust. She recasts her invisibility potion, and keeps running even though there is a terrible stitch in her side.

There is no time to keep track of her companions - they have agreed to meet outside of Markarth if they lose each other - and with the effects of the invisibility potions still lasting another minute, it is very likely that they will. Istha ducks into the shade of a nearby building and releases her invisibility potion with a gasp. Her lip is wet, and when she touches it she realizes her nose is bleeding again. Serves her right for attempting spells far above her skill level.

Once the stitch in her side has retreated somewhat and the blood has been wiped away, she calmly steps out of the shadows and walks slowly towards the city gates. She has done nothing wrong, and has no reason to fear the city guards whose eyes pass over her as they head to the commotion being raised in the direction she has just come from.

Cynric is leaning against the farmhouse when she approaches, and she can't suppress a smile when she sees that he must have taken advantage of his invisibility potion to somehow acquire a furred travelling cloak that hides most of his face. Enda is still missing, either lost and recaptured or trying to locate her husband. Istha doesn't care. Her old friend can do as she pleases.

"Now can I congratulate you?" Cynric asks gruffly as she approaches. She merely nods, clasping her hands behind her back. He takes her face in his hands gently, like he did for the first time in the Cistern after she returned from Goldenglow, riding the high of adrenaline and success much like she is now. The pad of his thumb brushes over her lips and she leans into his touch, her eyelids flickering shut. Cynric is not one for soft kisses and reining in passion. But he does then. She can still taste the bitter tang of the potion on his tongue, but it doesn't matter when it only spells out the sweetness of victory for her.

They only stop when someone commandingly clears his throat behind them. With a disappointed sigh, Istha pulls away from Cynric and turns to face Tsanvis and Enda, who has somehow relocated her armour.

“When you're done sucking on the human's face, I'd like us to get going.”

_Looks like Tsanvis is as charming as ever._

Istha simply sighs again and rolls her eyes, making sure he sees before she brushes past him. The horses she and Cynric came to Markarth on are peacefully grazing a short distance from the farm, guarded by a young stablehand who Istha paid to quietly take them out of their stalls this afternoon, fully tacked and equipped. He'll regret that decision soon, when the city guards come calling for two escaped prisoners, but for now a little bit of well-placed gold gets them away from Markarth as quickly as possible.

Istha wordlessly leads the larger dappled stallion to Enda and Tsanvis, who are a heavier load to bear due to their armour, and climbs into the saddle of her own stolen mare behind Cynric. Tsanvis gives her a glare as she encircles the thief's waist with her arms and leans against his back, but Istha couldn't care less. She doesn't plan to be travelling with them for very long anyway.

They keep the horses at a steady walk, not cruel enough to push them to higher speeds with two riders each even though the threat of recapture weighs heavily on them, and remain in silence for several more hours. Tsanvis breaks the quiet twice to redirect the group through a stream, but otherwise it is only the clip-clop of hooves on rock that echoes in the gorge. Istha looks uneasily at the cliffs that rise up on either side of the road. If the city guards catch up to them, the mountain range limits their escape options to death by cave bear, or death by falling into the very deep river gorge.

But somehow, no hunting horn sounds after them, and they set up camp in a clearing just off the road. A river babbles through the middle of the swatch of green grass, and at the peak of the gentle slope a Standing Stone overlooks the hill. Istha examines it as her companions unpack for the evening, though she's careful not to touch the smoothly carved surface. She's quite happy with the Mage Stone she picked all those weeks ago after she escaped from Helgen with Ralof and...

She pulls her hand back abruptly. A peek at her map tells her that this is the Lady Stone, and at this Istha laughs humourlessly. _A lady? What lady?_ She's been trekking through mud and snow across mainland Tamriel for over a year; she put aside her femininity without a second look. She returns to camp to find Cynric trying to strike up an awkward conversation as he watches Tsanvis strike a tinderbox. Istha sends a tiny ball of fire into the pile of sticks he has set up and smirks in triumph as the Dunmer man jerks back to avoid singed eyebrows. Growing up, she never understood why no one else in the family had the affinity for magic she did. Perhaps it was that shared interest that made her bond so quickly to Enda. In any case, the reason for the discrepancy is now known by Istha's entire hometown.

“So...” Cynric begins. “You're her brother?”

“Yes,” Tsanvis answers, just as Istha interrupts with an irritated “No.”

“Ah,” Cynric says. Istha wants to punch him, but holds herself back. She did grow up a _lady_ , after all. “I was just wondering. Enda here explained part of it to me, but you look awfully similar.”

Istha is well aware how alike her sharp features and dark hair are to her adoptive family. If it weren't for the ghost or that bastard she fell in love with in Morrowind, she might have lived her entire life in House Redoran without ever becoming wise to her once-mother's lies. As it is, she only resents Tsanvis and the others more because of it.

“I've been doing some wondering of my own. This morning the jewellery vendor in the market was moaning about her stall having been tampered with. The pendant you put around Rivnye's neck in the inn rather closely matched her description of what was missing,” Tsanvis accuses. Istha stiffens, half bent as she reaches for a log to add to the bonfire, but Cynric can take care of himself.

“All right, so I'm a thief. Are you going to run me through with that big scary sword of yours?” Cynric drawls, and though she can't see his face from her position by the bright fire, she can picture the satisfied smirk on his tanned face.

“No, no,” Tsanvis says. “I'm just wondering why a wealthy and educated young woman like Rivnye is spending her time with a thief.”

“He's good with his hands,” Istha deadpans, and can't help but twitch her lips into a smile when she hears Cynric's wheezing chuckle and even a guilty giggle from Enda when she catches onto the double meaning. Enda steps in to stop a fuming Tsanvis from decapitating the poor Breton for 'daring to lay hands on a member of House Redoran!', and moments later Istha is rooting through the saddlebags in search of dinner.

The stablehand has done his job well; dried meat and smoked fish will do nicely to provide them with protein, and there are enough vegetables that she thinks they could make a hearty stew. Her hand drifts to another saddlebag, where all her alchemy ingredients are. She still doesn't know much about Skyrim's flora, but she lingered around Riften's alchemy shop out of curiosity and picked up a few things. But in any case the best she'll be able to make is a poultice without a proper lab, and she's more comfortable using someone else's potions. She continues on to find the pack where she stored everything valuable she could find in the Hag's Cure.

Istha finds what she is looking for eventually in a small dark green vial, and slips it into one of her many pockets with ease before she turns away and pulls out Cynric's confiscated Guild armour. They're far enough from Markarth that she feels safe giving it back to him now.

He exclaims in delight as she hands it to him and strips right there without regard for decency. Istha keeps her head down to hide the grin on her face as Tsanvis starts choking his disapproval at the unwanted bare skin in front of him. Her once-brother always was rather uptight. She'll never know what Enda sees in him.

“You were busy last night,” Cynric says approvingly once he's dressed and he's pulled the hood over his head the way he always does. Istha only shrugs as she crouches by their small bonfire and watches Tsanvis and Enda set up a rough cooking spit. Their movements are synchronized and comfortable, a testament to the time they've spent travelling in the wilderness together. Tracking down a wayward Istha, of course.

Istha shoos them away once the spit is set up, telling them dinner's on her. She remembers the meals Lydia made for her and Larjan in the short time they spent together, and wonders where the male Dragonborn and his housecarl are now. She heard no rumours in Markarth, though you'd think a Dragonborn would be plenty to talk about. Perhaps he's been keeping his head down, like her. _Does he know the Thalmor are after him? Has he seen his mother's grave yet, the one Istha made for her?_

She wonders if she'll ever be able to face him. _Likely not._ Paarthurnax is right, but she has never felt less enthusiastic about her assigned fate. Let Alduin eat the damned world if he's so determined. She spoons tomato stew into two bowls with more anger than is really necessary towards vegetables, and hands the wooden bowls to Enda and Tsanvis without a word. Cynric hates tomatoes, so she passes him several strips of jerky instead, along with an apple.

He leans back against a nearby boulder and pats the grassy ground beside him, so Istha sits down and leans into his side. The warmth is appreciated as the night grows colder. On the other side of the fire, Tsanvis and Enda have their own supper. The division between them is stark.

"Thank you," Cynric says, a grudging warmth in his voice as he turns towards her. "I thought that was going to be High Rock all over again."

"Someone needs to be around in Riften to throw new recruits into the waterway," Istha says quietly, biting into her own apple. She doesn't miss the way he suddenly stiffens against her.

"You're not coming back with me, are you."

It isn't a question. She shakes her head anyway, feels him exhale beside her.

"I got a letter while you were in prison," she mumbles.

"So you're not going with your Dunmer friends either?" Another head shake. Cynric scoffs in response and wraps an arm around her shoulders as though he can keep her for a little longer. "They won't let you go that easily."

"They will," Istha sighs heavily. "I drugged the stew with a stamina poison. They won't be waking up for a few hours at least."

A sudden snore from the other side of the campfire punctuates her sentence. Cynric groans loudly.

"Godsdammit, Istha. You're too clever for your own good. One day you're going to get yourself into trouble you can't get yourself out of."

She only shrugs and turns away.

"There's over 800 septims worth of potions in the saddlebags of your stallion," Istha says. "Tell Delvin not to give you trouble for the botched job."

"You're serious, then?" he says after a long moment. His voice isn't really pained, as she expected. She and Cynric make no pretence about their relationship being anything more than a playful rivalry and the occasional night spent tangled together in blankets and furs, but an unexpected camaraderie has developed between them even so. "Where?"

"Winterhold," Istha says. "I have unfinished business there."

"Will you come back to Riften one day?" Cynric asks. Istha laces her fingers with his and leans her head back.

"I can't while my family expects me to. Tell you what, Endell. You send me a letter when they stop watching Riften, and I'll come back in a heartbeat."

"You don't have to go now," Cynric says, and his breath washing over her ear makes it twitch. He bites the tip lightly and she squirms. "You said they'd be out for hours. May as well make use of one."

She gives in to the promise of warm skin and demanding kisses, letting him lay back and pull her on top of his body. He's far more familiar with the Guild armour than she is and his quick hands undo the many buckles and straps before she's even aware he's touching her. She hurries to return the gesture, but he seems in no rush, letting her set her own pace against his rocking hips. His gentleness is unnatural, knowing him, and she finds herself disappointed.

At one point a loud snore from across the fire has them both freezing, but a few silent heartbeats later Cynric starts chuckling and rolling his hips again, and though she laughs too it feels hollow. The spell is broken, the mystery that drew her to him is gone. If it was ever there to begin with. Afterwards, he continues to hold her, stroking her shoulders and her black hair and tugging on the occasional tangle with nimble fingers.

“You should stay.”

She does not answer, merely blinking and pressing her cheek closer to his bare chest. None of her elf lovers ever had chest hair, and even though they've spent most nights in the two weeks on the road naked together, she still finds it strange.

"Enda talked a lot, you know. About you. And Morrowind. Whatever happened between you and your family... You should stay. Try to fix it. Because one day you won't have a family any more, and you won't be able to fix it no matter how much you want. Who knows? They could all die tomorrow, and you'd never know if things could have worked out,” Cynric says.

Somehow she doesn't think they're talking about her anymore, not really.

"Don't be serious, Cynric," Istha mutters. "It doesn't suit you."

His grip suddenly feels oppressive, not comforting. She doesn't like it. He of all people should know about freedom. She pulls away and his face is hard and so is his grip in her hair as he pulls her back down to his lap but his lips are still normal - still Cynric. One last desperate kiss for the road. And then she stands again, arms stiffly at her sides.

"I'll see you around," he says, and as she dresses and pulls her armour on top of the thin breeches, she pretends she's not aware of his eyes on her back.

A lunar moth flies into Istha's face as she saddles her mare and leads her back to the road. She swats at the offending insect, and when it refuses to leave her proximity she grabs it and tears its wings off viciously. _Stupid moth. Stupid Cynric. Stupid elves that won't let the past die where it belongs._ She's not sure what or who she's more angry at.

 

.........................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

"Ghost, why do the other ancestors ignore me?"

"It's in your head, child. The ancestors watch over everyone in the family."

"They don't watch over me. Why not? Did I do something wrong?"

 

.........................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

She loses her horse to a pack of bandits just before Morthal. The bandits then lose their lives to her, of course, but nothing can be done for the deep stab wounds on the poor mare that served her so faithfully across Skyrim's lands. Istha puts her out of her misery with a disappointed sigh, and continues on foot.

Morthal, to her great irritation, is plagued with rain and a distinct lack of stables. Given the sizeable crest drawn on her map, she expected a proper town, but this seems even smaller than Winterhold, and with just as many burnt houses. The locals warn her to stay away from the charred lodgings that stand just beside the inn, and she does so without question. She does like burning things, but her affection doesn't extend as far to things that are already burnt. The locals gossip, having nothing better to do in this cesspool of a town. Istha listens in to distract herself from the horrible keening that Orc bard is trying to pass off as singing, and is only vaguely surprised to hear about Larjan and Lydia passing through the town not long ago. _Of course_ , she thinks, idly swirling her drink around in a tankard. _That dusty tomb the Graybeards tried to send me to is nearby._ She downs the rest of the tankard and makes a face.

The Orc is still singing. Istha squints at him, wonders if he'll get the message if she throws her tankard at his head hard enough. Eventually she goes to bed instead, gratefully cocooning herself in the warm blankets. _A proper bed after weeks of travelling._ She didn't even have a chance to sleep in Markarth, for the one night they spent there. She sighs, wondering about Tsanvis and Enda. If she'd left anyone but Cynric with them, she might worry, but her Breton thief would be fine. Tsanvis' blood pressure, on the other hand...

She slips out of bed with the blankets still wrapped around her shoulders, her thoughts too volatile to let her rest. The inn's common room is empty but for the pretty Redguard innkeeper who has nodded off in her chair by the door, waiting for late travellers that will never arrive. The fire has almost died down, and Istha braves the cold with one thin hand as she pokes it out of the safety of the blankets and retrieves a piece of firewood from the pile on the floor. Tiny sparks fly up as she places it carefully onto one of the larger flames remaining.

A tiny gurgle coming from a room across the fire makes Istha strain to see into the darkness. The fire is too bright for her eyes, leaving everything in the background pitch black. This almost gets her killed. As it is, she barely has time to react to the lithe form leaping over the firepit and landing soundlessly beside her.

Instinct alone drives her to block the descending arms with her own, and she grunts as her attacker's weight is greater than her own. She feels smooth scale against the skin of her forearms and realizes she's up against an Argonian. Fire will do her no good. _Ice,_ she thinks, and in response the man's feet are suddenly frozen right to the ground. Istha leaps out of the range of his slashing blades and watches him struggle with her ice with wary eyes. Very agile, even for an Argonian. She saw a few in Riften but generally kept out of their way. Most of the ones working in the fishery were Skooma addicts, and everyone knows the dangers of getting close to a creature that doesn't remember anything about itself aside from the terrible, overwhelming craving that took over their life.

"Let me go," he snarls at Istha. She merely side-steps slowly to the room he just came out of, and risks a peek inside. The bard, or what used to be him. If it weren't for the enormous black stain on the Orc bard's shirt, he might just be sleeping in bed. She returns to the assassin, leaning against the counter and looking impassive.

"The ice will melt in a minute. You're free to go. I have no intention of waking the innkeeper. I daresay his singing has improved with the new circumstances," she says.

"I will gut you as soon as I can move," the Argonian growls. Istha sighs.

"Please don't. I've had an awful day," she says. Her eyes fix upon the silhouette of a hand pressed onto his armour. In the dying fire's flickering light, it looks like it's still bleeding. Fitting. "The hand. What does it mean?"

"It means I'm an assassin of the great Dark Brotherhood, and your end is at hand!"

"Right, right," Istha says disapprovingly. "As soon as the ice melts, I got that part. Say, aren't you quite familiar with shadows?"

"It is the shadows that hide me as I stalk towards you to slit your throat," the Argonian snarls. _Rather one track mind he's got there._

"I want to join you," Istha says. The more she turns the idea over in her head, the more it makes sense. Thievery will only get her so far. _This Dark Brotherhood he's talking about... That could be worth a try._ Of course, it's unlikely she'll be able to sneak up to Alduin and slit his throat, but at least it might satisfy Paarthurnax. He did insist she get acquainted with shadows.

"Never," the Argonian spits. "Only Astrid can decide whether or not to approach you. One does not just wander into the Brotherhood willy-nilly."

Istha says nothing. The ice is almost gone. He will be able to move soon, and then they will see where they stand. Quite literally, too. The Argonian pokes at one of the ice blocks with the tip of his sword. Not too loudly, lest they wake the snoring innkeeper. After a moment of deliberation, he twists his foot, and it comes free from the ground. The second follows. They stand separate for another moment, utterly still aside from the Argonian's gently twitching tail.

"Kill well, and often," he says, and flees the inn before she can respond. Istha lets out a tiny breath of relief, the only outward sign that her confidence in persuasion is not as impenetrable as it seems. She returns to her room, suddenly tired again.

It seems she'll live to see another sunrise. She still had her magic, of course, if the assassin decided to strike, but this is to her preference. It's a long way to Dawnstar, and she doesn't want to trek that distance with fresh injuries. Her fingers trail underneath the blanket and find the roping scar on her hip, the one that remains a month after her brush with the Caller. She doesn't like it. Her skin was unmarred before she came to Skyrim. Now it seems she has a new injury and a mark to remember it by every week. She tells herself she should stay awake in case the assassin comes back to finish her off when she's not prepared to stab him through with an ice spike, but the bed is so warm and her bones are so sore...

When she wakes, it's to the innkeeper's terrified screech. Istha lies still in bed, blinking sleepily. Out in the wilderness she'd be on her feet already, but here in the inn she has nothing to fear. Nothing, of course, but the innkeeper bursting into her room.

"You!" she yells, pointing a shaky finger at Istha. Now she is awake, eyes alert and worried as she unravels the bedsheet and stands. "You killed Lurbuk!"

Istha is too stunned to protest, then she looks down and sees the unmistakeable bloodstains on the wooden floor. Footsteps, about her size and shape, leading from the common room. She's willing to bet they start in the bard's room. Istha almost laughs at the absurdity of it. _That damned Argonian!_ She'll give it to him, he's killing two birds with one stone by framing her, but now she has to get herself out of this.

She's very aware of the cool air swishing about her ankles, and wishes she was wearing more than her underclothes and the thin men's tunic that ends above her knees. Her guild armour is draped over the chest at the end of the bed, her pack is otherwise in one piece. How quickly can she leave?

"I saw you! I saw the way you looked at him! You're a killer!" the innkeeper shrieks. Istha presses her lips together and inches towards her pack. The innkeeper's gaze drops to the bedside table. "And there's the weapon! Guards!"

Istha chances a peek behind her. Of course, a bloody iron dagger left in plain sight on the little nightstand. She'd never leave a weapon unclean like that. _This is obviously a set-up. Damn that assassin to Oblivion_. It's not like she can say he did it, because then she'd have to explain why she let him get away, and why she didn't tell anyone right then. 'I was bloody tired and I didn't like that pansy's music anyway' is not a suitable excuse. The arrival of the guards tells her she needs to make her move, and soon. Istha hoists her pack over her shoulders and lunges forward, gathering her armour into her arms. She casts the now-familiar invisibility spell and shoves the innkeeper aside. The guards are spread out in the common room, weapons out and formation chaotic. She sticks to the tables, inching around the fire, and slips out the door.

She hopes a giant hole opens underneath Morthal and swallows the pathetic collection of shacks whole. Cynric had some very creative cusses, and several come to mind as she limps out of the city boundaries - _damned rocks stabbing her bare feet!_ \- and eventually stops to dress in a copse of trees.

Her mood doesn't improve on the way to Dawnstar, though her aim with fireballs does. She stumbles upon two different groups of bandits before they spot her and has great fun setting them on fire while they run about trying to find the source of their present misery. _Your damned brethren killed my horse!_ The pride she feels at being able to hold her own against Skyrim's dangers almost makes up for her irritation. She reaches Dawnstar at nightfall, and walks straight into a pair of citizens complaining about nightmares.

"You're lucky, traveller," one of them moans sadly. "The dreams aren't affecting those just passing through. The rest of us haven't gotten a proper wink of sleep in months."

"What a shame," Istha says, and stomps towards the inn. Dawnstar doesn't have a stable either, but she does find a gentle-eyed mercenary who offers her his horse.

"I was worried about who would take care of him," he says, softly grooming the thick-pelted chestnut horse. "Betso and I have been all over Skyrim, but I'll be getting on that ship tomorrow. I've always wanted to sail. Now that this war is going on, it's time for me to take a little trip. You look out for Betso now, and Betso will look out for you."

She pays him a hefty amount of gold and gives the aging stallion a grudging scratch under the ear. They set off along Skyrim's Northernmost coast, passing only giant herds of horkers - ridiculous creatures, but she bets those tusks catch a fine price further South - and the occasional sabre cat. The latter she skins and rolls up on the saddle behind her. A little bit of fur goes a long way in Skyrim.

Eventually the silhouette of the College rises out of the mist surrounding the higher cliffs, and Istha kicks Betso into a quicker trot up the snowy path that leads up to Winterhold. She's about halfway up when the stone walls that have stood the test of time and magic burst outwards, like a overripe fruit crushed under a giant foot. She can only watch in shock as the back of the College crumbles into the sea below, and a moment later the wave of energy that destroyed the walls ripples outwards.

Betso has time to whine nervously and skitter on the icy slope before the wave knocks them sideways.

Istha can't hold back a pained scream as her back hits the rock cliff to the side of the path and Betso's weight crushes her leg against the ground. The sharp crack that echoes up through her calf and thigh makes her vision go black. She blinks back into conciousness what feels like a few minutes later. Her face is streaked with tears, the gold of her warpaint has dripped off her cheeks and onto her chest.

She watches Betso struggle to his feet and toss his head, and is glad that at least one of them can walk. She, on the other hand... She eyes the injured leg warily, noting the unnatural angle of the bones in her calf. There are potions in her pack, but that's strapped to Betso's saddle and from her position on the ground that might as well be across all of Tamriel.

Istha groans loudly and slumps on the ground. Her leg aches insistently. She's at a loss for what to do – she needs to get to the College, find out what happened, but she won't make it a single step like this. A healing spell glows reluctantly in her hand. She could try healing herself, but she doesn't know how to set bone. If she does this wrong she'll remain crippled for life... No, better not to risk it. She closes her hand on the healing spell and instead conjures a Frost Atronach.

It follows her command without question, gently scooping her up. Her leg jars at the initial contact and she bites back another scream, but it rests then on the Atronach's arm and moves no more. She has time to snag Betso's reins as the Atronach carries her past and he trudges along obediently after the strange pair. They ascend to the edges of Winterhold, and promptly find themselves caught in the middle of the strangest fight Istha has ever set eyes upon, and all the while she is helplessly unable to intervene.

And in the middle of it all; Brelyna battling the icy intruders like an sabre cat mother whose kittens are threatened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have overcomplicated this story significantly.  
> See you again in two days?


	21. L - Company in Solitude

He awakes to the sound of singing.

He doesn't open his eyes for a long time, preferring not to disturb the peace of a naive dream. He hasn't had a dream like this in a long time; not before being taken in by the Thalmor, and certainly not after. Elenwen's special 'sleep concoctions' often had an effect contrary to the name she so smugly referred to them as. This singing doesn't sound like her, though. It's not an Elf voice, though very pleasant in its own right. He recognizes a few words; High Cyrodiilic. He never really caught the hang of the language during the days he spent as a sellsword there, and kept to himself in the mines.

A door creaks open, and the singing stops. He stills his breathing as heavy footsteps echo against a hard floor.

"Good morning, Priestess."

A man's voice. He allows himself to breathe out.

"And to you, General."

"How is our patient?"

"Asleep still. No matter how many times you come to ask a day, the answer will be the same. He has been severely injured, and there is only so much magic can do. Let him rest."

"Your concern is admirable, Priestess, but we cannot let him lie comatose for another three days! This war is stretching people's patience thin. More men and women desert the Legion's ranks every week to return to their farms and families, and I need the Dragonborn to rally them!"

"You might do well to ask the Eight Divines for help, if you're so troubled, my dear General. However I remain firm in my diagnosis. Rorlund and Freir will tell you the same thing."

"You'll call me when he wakes."

"I will call you when he's fit for conversation, and no earlier. Try to understand what he's gone through, Tullius."

The General merely grunts in response, and the footsteps start again, heading away. The man pretending to be asleep waits for the door to shut. The singing starts again; quietly, shyly.

He opens his eyes. Stone above his head - not wet and stained with piss and blood and vomit and forever drip drip dripping. Just stone. Clean, gray, cool. He turns his head, and there is the source of the singing, a young woman bowed before a shrine set upon a pedestal in an alcove. What's that? Stendarr? Must be. And beside it, Arkay. He must make some kind of sound, because the next thing he knows the woman is standing, brushing off her orange-robed knees, and picking up a bucket of water on the ground beside her.

She smiles when she sees he is awake, and he shies away from the gesture. ~~A trick. It must be a trick.~~ She looks to be Imperial, but she is an imposter planted by Elenwen, or Elenwen herself performing an extraordinary feat of magic. Even the arrival of the man and the conversation between them - a trick.

“You're finally awake,” she says, still smiling that terribly beautiful smile. She kneels beside his cot, pulls out a rag from inside the bucket and wrings it out partially. He has seen that twisting motion before, when ~~they broke all the bones in J'aesire's arms~~. The priestess reaches for his face with the rag, and he flinches, closing his eyes to delay the inevitable torture. The rag drapes over his face, then is folded up neatly onto his forehead. Cool air wafts over the damp skin.

He waits for the rag to reveal its trick. A flesh-eating poison? A slow alchemical burn? Elenwen left his face alone for most of her conversations, wanted him to be recognizable. He should have known it wouldn't last. The priestess hums. He feels cold water on his hands as she washes them gently, tries to fight back when the rag brushes over the stumps on his left hand. She is stronger than she looks. His missing knuckles still ache, even though he knows there's nothing there. The cold touch descends to his bare feet.

After several minutes, he opens his eyes. The priestess is still washing his scarred skin, more water than touch, like he is a newborn baby rubbed raw by his entrance into the world. He watches her. She is about his mother's age, but he can see she was once beautiful. Sharp Imperial features by her look, but then, ~~Lydia looked Imperial too and was Nord through and through.~~

“Please,” he whispers. The single word hurts his throat beyond measure. The priestess stills, shifts her weight as to bend over his face. A soft, wrinkled hand tucks loose strands of hair behind his ears.

"Can you sit up?" she asks. Her hands hover behind him as he struggles to raise himself off the cot, but don't touch him. His entire body aches at the movement, especially his back. A jug is pushed into his hands. The priestess gestures for him to drink, so he does so reluctantly. The mixture is harmless. He tastes honey, and something else cool and slimy. It soothes the inside of his throat, dulling the painful burn to a background annoyance.

“Where am I?" he asks hoarsely, once his lungs are cooperating.

“You're in Solitude, Dragonborn,” the priestess says. “My name is Silana. Welcome to the Temple of the Divines."

“Not,” he coughs. “Divine enough.”

Silana only smiles faintly and resumes her lullaby. He lays back and closes his eyes. The sound of the rag dipping into the bucket and being wrung out calms him. A moment later, he is asleep again.

 

..............................................................................................................................................................................................

 

The next time he wakes, he is alone, and he feels stronger.

He stands, cautiously. Someone has dressed him in simple linen clothes. White. Clean. He lifts a sleeve to his face. He smells like wildflowers. _How absurd_.

He takes a hesitant step forward, off of the rug that has been laid out underneath the makeshift cot he's been lying in for however long he's been here. His feet are bare, and the stone underneath his soles is cold, but he doesn't mind it. Everything feels too warm. He turns.

He stands in an open semi-circle. The ceiling is high above him, there are nine small alcoves arranged in the curve of the wall. Only eight shrines. ~~Nine?~~ Eight? Eight it is. He walks towards the empty pedestal and lays his hand on it. _Who is missing?_ He thinks it's important, but thinking hurts his head and the missing shrine only distresses him. He pulls his hand away and backs up, already turning his attention to the rest of the hall. It is strangely quiet.

This is not part of Elenwen's dungeons. Not unless it's another trick, which is always a possibility.

The priestess said Solitude. Can she be believed? He doesn't know. He walks down the centre of the hallway silently, bare feet making no noise against the stone. Another Elf leaps to mind - gray skin instead of gold, red eyes instead of orange. _Istha_. She was important, but she is gone, ~~just like the missing shrine~~. The reason why is on the tip of his tongue but he swallows it back. ~~He doesn't want to think of such things.~~

The door opens slowly. Creaks. He freezes, but no one emerges from between the arching pillars to force him back. So he walks outside. It is evening, there is a breeze that smells faintly of rain and sea and lavender. He's never been to the sea but the scent isn't hard to identify. What else could it be? The streets are lined with blue and purple flowers of every kind. He stops to pick one and is nearly run over by a laughing child.

He jumps backwards and watches the boy run off without a backward glance, still laughing. Two girls follow just a second later, hot on his heels. A game of tag, then. Children. He files the memory away in his head and wanders off in the direction they ran. They are soon stopped by a serious-looking man, who tells them to turn back and go home in a pained voice. He half expects the man to tell him to go home too, but then he remembers he's an adult, and trails blankly after the man as he turns and walks away.

There is some kind of commotion up ahead. Many people. _Too many_. He wants to turn back, but curiosity keeps his feet moving forward. There is a man up on the platform, kneeling. Another man standing and talking in grand armour, another with an axe. He knows that axe, knows it well. It was very nearly acquainted with his head, right before -

~~_Helgen!_ ~~

Inside his mind, the two _dovahs_ howl in pain. He very nearly does the same, clutching at his head and swaying. The man standing on the stage just keeps talking, unaware and uncaring.

"Guard. Prepare the prisoner."

The kneeling man's eyes remain sharp and proud despite the manacles on his wrist and the bloodied rags that adorn his body.

"I don't need your help," he snaps.

"Very well, Roggvir. Bow your head," the armoured man says. No one in the square moves a muscle or dares to breathe as Roggvir the prisoner awkwardly lays down, struggling with the range of movement the manacles allow him.

"On this day..." he says as his neck rests on the block. "I go to Sovngarde."

"Captain Aldis!" a voice calls from the back. Everyone turns to see General Tulius running forward, the sword at his hip clinking against his armour. "A moment. My ward seems to wandered over, and I'd like to take him back. He doesn't need to see this."

"As you wish, General."

The man in wildflower-scented linen clothes startles as the General lays a heavy hand on his shoulder. His eyes are wide and panicked. There are whispers from the watching crowd - ~~is that him? he doesn't look like much. I thought he'd be taller. is he okay?~~ \- He tries to convey his anxiety to the General, but the Imperial man is not looking at him but at the scene frozen on the platform.

_General Tulius_ , he wants to say. _General Tulius they are going to kill a man. Stop them._

His throat won't get the words out, though he tries as the blond Imperial man pulls him away from the square and down another street. He can only cough.

The axe falls. He hears it strike bone, and then the stone underneath, and cannot help but flinch.

"Dragonborn," General Tulius says as the man crouches in the middle of the street and places his hands over his ears. "Stand up."

He can only rock back and forth, pale eyes darting around the street as they search for something to focus on.

"Larjan," the General says after a long moment. The man slowly raises his head to look at them.

"My name," he says hoarsely.

"Yes," General Tulius says impatiently. "Stand up and walk with me back to the Temple."

"Solitude," Larjan says. The Imperial man nods once. He is growing impatient at this slow pace - _it's like dealing with a child! What could the Elves have done to him? Worse still, the Ambassador insists she is entirely in her rights, demanding the return of the only survivor of the fire that destroyed the Thalmor Embassy, as well as recompensation for the ruined property._ He grits his teeth.

"Larjan," he says, trying again.

"Are you going to behead me too?" the broken man asks. Tullius doesn't understand for a moment, then remembers Helgen. He shakes his head curtly.

Eventually the man stands, and they return together - ever so slowly - to the Temple of the Divines.

The main hall is not empty. Two Imperial soldiers stand on either side of a chest, and though their postures are initially relaxed they snap to attention as the General enters with the Dragonborn. And behind them, impatiently tapping her foot...

~~Elenwen.~~

Larjan tears himself away from General Tullius, makes it a few steps towards the door and collapses in on himself. There is screaming - his own - and voices pleading for calm, trying to pull his hands away from his face... ~~His broken, incomplete hands.~~

"Thank you for your help, Taarie, we'll take it from here and see to it that your shop receives the appropriate payment."

"I was told we were making clothes for the Dragonborn of old legends, not a crazed madman!"

"Taarie, if you please... He has a little bit of trouble with Altmer women."

"I don't want my shop associated with a madman!"

"Larjan, can you hear me? Look at my face. It's me, Silana. Deep breaths."

The Imperial priestess is kneeling in front of him, her hands outstretched, reaching for his own. He focuses on the sharp angles of her face, focuses on getting air into his lungs. The door opens, then closes. The chaos dies down.

"I hope you don't intend to do that in front of every High Elf you come across," General Tullius says, and Larjan looks up slowly to see the older man brushing a hand through his trimmed hair in frustration. "Now I've got to pay the damned shopkeeper to keep her gossip to herself."

"...Elenwen?" Larjan asks meekly.

"No, Larjan," Silana says, still holding his hands and rubbing soothing circles into the skin. "That was just Taarie. She's a shopkeeper, she was here to get your measurements. You need a proper wardrobe now that you're up about about."

Larjan wets his lips, and curls in tighter on himself. Taarie? Another High Elf? All he saw was ~~Elenwen~~. He shudders. Even now, it seems he can't escape her.

"Can you stand, Larjan? General Tullius here has some gifts for you, and he'd so like to see if they fit you properly."

He does stand, though he sways slightly on the balls of his feet. The General's gifts turn out to be a finely crafted set of the Legion's famous - or infamous, depending on how one sees it - armour. Larjan wants to shake his head, wants to back away. He vaguely remembers the talk he had with Lydia what seems like a lifetime ago - they said they might join the ranks of the Legion together, once they'd dealt with the dragons. How naive. He doesn't want to join anymore. He doesn't want to do anything. He wants to lie down and sleep forever and forget that he is all at once ~~Larjan~~ and ~~Dragonborn~~ and a dead man walking.

He makes no sound or movement of protest as they dress him, buckling the plates over his chest and twisting his arms around to fasten the gauntlets. They hang a sword sheath ~~on the wrong side~~. When he is done, Tullius is smiling. Larjan tries to mimic the expression, but it feels all twisted.

"Now you look ready to meet the troops," the General says proudly. Larjan shakes his head meekly.

"General Tullius, this has been enough excitement for one day! Please, let my patient rest."

"Relax, Priestess. Soldier, give the Dragonborn a sword to hold."

The hilt of the steel blade is forced into his sweaty right hand. Larjan stares down at it.

"Have you forgotten how to hold a sword, boy?" General Tullius says, frowning down at Larjan's limp grip. "I've seen farmer's sons hold a weapon better than that."

"I'm left-handed," Larjan says quietly.

All eyes in the Temple slide to the stumps on Larjan's other hand. The General is clearly taken aback, the look on his face pained and surprised. Larjan tries to flex his hand, feels only pain where his knuckles should be. He suppose he should be grateful that she left him all the digits on his non-dominant hand, but now all he can think is that he wishes she hadn't known about his peculiar preference for his left side.

"No matter," General Tullius says, forcing a smile to his face. Now that kind of expression Larjan can imitate. "Sheath the sword for now, we'll find a solution to that later. For now all you have to do is walk through the training grounds."

"He's not even shaven," Silana complains, but Tullius interrupts.

"All the more manly," he says briskly. "He'll appeal to the Nords."

In the end, the only thing the General agrees to wait for is a little bit of facepaint. Silana brings out a few jars with various colours, asks what design he normally has. ~~He can't remember.~~ He says blue on a whim, but Tullius says that's out of the question. ~~The colour blue has grown to be automatically associated with the Stormcloaks.~~ Tullius chooses red for him instead, so Silana drags her fingers gently over his cheeks and forehead. Larjan doesn't want to follow Tullius out of the Temple and to Castle Dour's courtyard, but it doesn't seem like he has a choice.

There is a sparring match underway when they arrive - wooden swords, but the blows aren't held back. One man is clearly winning over the other. The match isn't over, but they drop their swords to their sides and salute as the General approaches anyway.

"At ease," Tullius says, calmly running an eye over the soldiers gathered in the courtyard. "Men, women," he continues. "I would like you to meet the Dragonborn of legend, Larjan Silvereyes."

There is a moment of quiet.

"Silvereyes? I think they're a little bluer, personally," an Imperial woman quips, peering at Larjan's face. He gives a start at her attention, and takes a nervous step back.

"I hope you're pulling our leg, General," one of the men that was sparring earlier says. The one that was winning. He folds his arms over his chest and gives Larjan a patronizing look. "Just because you dress up a sewer rat in our armour doesn't mean he's Dragonborn."

"Careful, Torbar. It sounds like you're questioning my judgement. Who's in charge here, again?" General Tullius responds coldly. Larjan is already set on edge. This is not the stroll through the courtyard he was told to expect.

"I'm just saying, General," Torbar says. He uncrosses his arms and taps the wooden sword against his leg. "I think I could take him, legends or not."

To Larjan's horror, there are murmurs of agreement from the other soldiers present.

"Can you Shout?" the woman who questioned his eye colour speaks up again. "I've heard the Dragonborn can Shout. So show us."

Shout? Larjan can barely talk with the condition of his throat.

"There are rumours that the Stormcloaks have a little Elf girl on their side who has the voice of dragons," Torbar says, his eyes sparking with malice. "Can you imagine? An Elf, being the hero of Nord legends? I bet she's sleeping with Ulfric Stormcloak so he lets her strut around with that title. I'll give it to you, General, at least you picked the right race when you went looking for a pretender, but-"

Mirmulnir has heard enough. He forces himself over Larjan's conciousness, demanding to be heard -

_Fus!_

Torbar flies backwards, his flight finally coming to an end against one of the archery targets by the stone wall. There is a collective wince as arrow shafts snap under his weight and the man slumps to the ground with a groan.

Mirmulnir finally releases his hold on Larjan's body, allowing the Nord man to break off into a violent coughing bout. There are splatters of blood on his palm when he finally pulls it away.

"Captain Aldis," General Tullius says. "Please give Torbar the medical attention he requires, and then a revocation of his free-time privileges. Let this be a reminder to everyone else that the Legion is a proper army. We are fighting savages, we are not savages ourselves. I don't want to see my men and women succumb to jealousy and spite. Leave that to the Stormcloaks. Am I understood?"

He rests a hand on Larjan's shoulder ~~in what is meant to be a comforting manner~~ , but only makes Larjan jerk away.

"The Dragonborn is ill," Tullius continues. "I will admit to that. But he will recover soon enough, and when that happens he will join you in training. Before long, we will take back Skyrim for Jarl Elisif!"

There are more murmurs from the nearby soldiers - some agreeing, some resenting. Larjan hears none of them as he is led back to the Temple. There are two more Priests there when they arrive, a Nord man and woman who take Silana's side as she scolds Tullius for pushing Larjan too far. He pays no attention, simply strips off the horrible armour as quickly as he can and falls onto his cot.

_Rest, little dov_ , Sahloknir says, his growl almost affectionate. _Rest to regain your strength, and then we will show these humans they cannot parade us around like trophies._

He doesn't respond.

 

.......................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Larjan jerks awake, eyes wide and panicked, his own fingers clawing at the cot beneath him as they search for a weapon that will never be there again. He wants to scream, but there is no breath in his lungs, no uninjured flesh in his throat.

It takes him another moment to realize he is alone. Elenwen is not present. ~~He is safe.~~ He sits up, stumbles to the side. The shrines watch accusingly as he kneels in front of Arkay's pedestal.

"Please," Larjan mouths, his lips moving frantically but making no sound. "I'm sorry I didn't die. I'm sorry I broke the balance. Forgive me."

The priests find him frozen in that same position hours later, at the crack of dawn. His lips silently repeat the same desperate prayer over and over until the Nord woman - Freir - gently suggests that he spend a few moments at Stendarr's shrine, or Mara's.

"The God of Life and Death is a difficult one to pray to," she says. "Mercy and compassion are what you need right now."

He lets her sit him down in front of the other shrines, and numbly follows in her soft, calm prayers. By the time his stomach is growling in anticipation of breakfast, he almost feels at peace. Freir giggles and tells him to follow her. The priests eat simply - bread and leeks and hard cheese, fitting for someone of their occupation. Rorlund says it's good for his stomach as well.

"Eat a little bit more each day, but not too much. Your stomach will reject anything too much or too rich until it learns to accept a full meal again."

This is how he learns to live again.

For the next two weeks there is prayer every morning, when he is often joined by Rorlund or one of the two priestess. Sometimes they pray for the whole of Skyrim, sometimes on behalf of an unlucky traveller who has asked their help, or a local family with a sick child, or a farmer whose cows won't yield milk. Larjan envies them their clear heads - he prays like a two-carriage wreck, blindly and furiously and desperately. There isn't a God of _please-help-me-I'm-the-Dragonborn-and-the-Thalmor-nearly-killed-me-and-still-want-to-and-I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing-in-this-world-or-what-I'm-meant-to-do-and-I'm-scared-okay-I'm-so-fucking-scared_ , so he usually finds himself in front of the two Divines Freir suggested.

Sometimes, when the Temple is empty, he gravitates to the empty pedestal where Talos once watched over aspiring adventurers. He lays his hand on the pedestal, wonders what he'd ask of Talos if he were here. He thinks maybe they could have something to talk about. Skyrim. The ~~blessing~~  curse of the Voice. Having so many people expecting him to leap out and lead them to some kind of victory for one side when all he can see is defeat for the other.

This kind of thinking quickly grows exhausting, so after breakfast he wanders up and down Solitude's flower lined streets. One day he comes to a halt in front of the blacksmith's fire, and watches the man there hammer at a stout blade.

"Are you just going to watch or can you make yourself useful?" the blacksmith eventually grunts. He has Larjan tan various pelts at first, an easy enough task to do with one and a half hands. On the third day he pushes a hammer into Larjan's right hand and tells him to get rid of the dent in 'this blasted soldier's chestpiece'.

Larjan hesitates at first. He tries explaining that his left hand ~~is was? Is? Was? He doesn't know anymore~~ his strong hand, but the man only tells him to get to work on making his right stronger if he wants a proper living. Despite his rather rude and upfront introduction, the blacksmith warms to him quickly, letting him make little iron daggers out of scrap ingots. Larjan even catches the older man smiling at things Larjan creates that are slightly less bad than usual, before whisking the mutilated pieces of metal away and melting them down so he can start anew.

He still doesn't have the dexterity in his right hand that he misses in his left, but after several days he can feel the strength building in the cramped fingers. It is swelteringly hot in the shelter of the anvil, but the repetitive clanging of metal on metal prevents him from being able to hear his thoughts, and gives him a rhythm by which to time his breaths. _In, out. In, out._ The blacksmith - Beirand- tells him he has a chance at operating his own smithy one day, and Larjan rather likes this idea until he remembers the fate that has been assigned to him and falls into depression all over again.

He tries, after a few days, to spar against General Tullius. They meet in Castle Dour's courtyard after midnight, when all the other soldiers have either gone drinking or to bed or both. Tullius disarms him within seconds every single time. Eventually the older Imperial man switches his sword to his own non-dominant hand, and this proceeds a little more fairly. However Larjan still has no desire to proceed with anything else, refusing to read a pre-written speech to his troops or to parade about in anything other than his plain linen clothes or swear allegiance to the Legion.

Silana coaxes him into trimming the wild beard that has grown on his face since the Thalmor captured him, but the entire thing ends up being so tangled and matted with _gods-know-what_ that he shaves all of it off. It takes him nearly three hours to complete a task that should take a few minutes, mostly because the thought of bringing the razor that close to his throat has him breaking out in cold sweats. Rorlund offers to help him, but Larjan refuses. He cannot and will not let anyone else near him with a sharp object. He does it himself, with his own shaking hand. When he finally presents his bare skin to Silana, she claps her hands in happiness and he only flinches a little bit at the sudden sound. She eventually persuades him to cut his hair as well, and the shorn ends tickle the skin just below his ears. ~~Kirstte would be happy to see him now.~~

On the tenth day Tullius takes one look at his new appearance and drags him to the Blue Palace. Jarl Elisif is a thin, rather anxious woman who looks upon Larjan with a fluttery sort of apprehension until he kneels and kisses the back of her hand.

He won't bow down for an army, or for the purpose they fight for. But he has enough dignity to recognize the High Queen, has enough humility to see the suffering in her eyes and try to tell her through his face that he understands - _gods, does he understand_. Her stiff posture and the way she sits on the edge of her throne like she's still not comfortable in the place of her late husband doesn't make her any less in his eyes. They are alike, he and her. Alike in their pain.

"I'm sorry about Torygg," Larjan says quietly as he stands.

"I know," Elisif responds. Then her face suddenly scrunches up and there are quiet tears and trembling hands that reach out, asking for someone else who knows what it's like. General Tullius makes him leave.

 

.............................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

In the end it's Beirand, the blacksmith, that convinces him to join the Legion.

The older man doesn't speak much, preferring to let the rhythmic hammering of metal take over conversation, but Larjan does ask him one day if he supports the Empire.

"Ah... To be honest, no. But High King Torygg supported them, and now her lady Elisif has thrown in with them... You could say I'm a King's man at heart. Hmph. I guess that's 'Jarl's man' now," Beirand muses as he dunks a red-hot axe into the water trough to cool it off.

Larjan doesn't know what to answer, so he keeps sharpening a blade on the grindstone. The squeaking is getting on his nerves, but he knows that Beirand has a huge amount of orders to fill for the Legion's soldiers and needs all the help he can get.

"My loyalty lies with Solitude," the man says finally. "So where Jarl Elisif leads, I follow."

"I understand," Larjan says softly, and he does.

So when Beirand dismisses him for an early supper, he returns to the Temple and dresses in the Imperial armour that Tullius had him fitted with for the second time in his life. He doesn't yet know it, but it will also be the last. He hangs his scabbard on his left hip, so he can draw the standard-issue sword on his right side, and hopes dearly that the exercises he's put his good hand through will be enough for now. Silana smiles at him as he passes her where she sits facing the shrines, and he bends over and places a kiss on her cheek.

"Thank you," he whispers. She smiles again.

"The Divines are watching over your trials," she says as he walks out the door. He hopes so. Gods know he's had enough suffering for a lifetime.

No one pays him much attention as he takes the long route to Castle Dour ~~as always, avoiding the Thalmor headquarters that no one ever seems to enter or exit~~  but he's not surprised. The people of Solitude have long since grown used to the soldiers that reside in their city. It is a warm evening. A soft breeze blows at the lavender sprigs planted parallel to the cobblestone path, and he runs his hand over their tips as he walks. They tickle.

General Tullius is busy when he enters the Castle, so a guard standing by the war room gestures for him to sit on a nearby bench. Larjan does so patiently. He's strangely at ease with his decision to join the Legion. The Thalmor can't hold anything against him if he works with their allies, right?

His gaze drifts to the brazier that stands beside him. It's no longer lit, the coals glowing very faintly with a past heat. There are bits of burned paper and red leather mixed in. ~~They look familiar.~~

"It's been two weeks, General Tullius."

Larjan stiffens, suddenly feeling the chill of the stone wall behind him. That voice... This wall, this human-made barricade, is all that stands between him and his greatest nightmare. He suddenly finds himself unable to breathe. The sight of the brazier swims in front of him.

"Ambassador I assure you I am perfectly capable of telling the time. Your intimidation doesn't impress me. My decision remains made."

"Give him back to me. I know you have him in Solitude."

"You have no right to harass my soldiers."

~~Red leather. Deft hands working with improvised tools despite their shaking. Veins standing out in stark contrast to skin rubbed raw by chains.~~

"I have every right. Have you forgotten the terms of the White-Gold Concordat so quickly? Need I remind you of the Dominion's powers?"

"Unfortunately not. Regardless, the boy remains in my charge."

~~A relieved sigh as the lock pops open. The dossiers tucked under his shirt, safe beneath layers of dirty cloth and stolen Elven armour.~~

The guard standing by the door is asleep now. Larjan's hands shake as he picks out bits of the dossiers he worked so hard to retrieve from the Embassy. He can make no sense of them now - just charred edges and smudged ink in a language he doesn't recognize - but slips them into the pouch on his belt nonetheless. He can't believe he forgot about them - he's been sleepwalking in Solitude, half caught between nightmare and reality. Tullius must have confiscated them, then tossed them into the nearest brazier without a thought for the consequences. A last minute act of desperation, before _~~she~~_ walked into Castle Dour?

He doesn't wait to meet the General anymore. He knows now that he will never be safe with the Legion. He's suddenly so thankful that he thought of wearing the Imperial armour as he stumbles outside into the fading daylight. He intended just to impress General Tullius, but now it makes for a convincing disguise.

No one looks twice at an Imperial soldier walking out of Solitude's gates. His is just another anguished face, aged too quickly by the war. Inside his skull, Mirmulnir and Sahloknir croon. 

_Little dovah, making his own way in the world! Burn it. Make it burn like you did._

He tries to ignore them as he stumbles down the road, eyes staring unseeingly ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I met expectations with this chapter. I'm sorry I'm so mean to Larjan. If this chapter was too melodramatic or confusing, or if you disliked the strikethroughs, let me know please. Otherwise, see you later, and thanks for reading. 
> 
> There might be a little bit of a delay before Istha's next chapter. I have a horrendously busy week coming up, and unfortunately academics come before fanfiction. :(


	22. I - They Prowl at the Gates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that we're jumping back and forth in time for a little bit! The bolded sections at the beginning of the past few chapters should help until the timelines become synchronized again. Thanks!

**2 weeks prior to where we left Larjan. Hours after Istha's last recount.**

 

"Stay still!" Brelyna snaps. "If you fuss, the bone will tear your skin open and I will leave you like that!"

"Are you kidding?" Istha yelps as her Dunmer friend tries to set her broken leg in the middle of a ruined Winterhold. "There's no way I'm letting you mess with my body - you turned me into a goat in the middle of the Hall of Attainment last time!"

"Fine," Brelyna says, and Istha startles when her voice cracks. Faralda, who has been lurking behind since the anomalies were defeated, lays a hand on her shoulder only to have it shaken off. "I'll go heal Mirabelle, and she won't complain because she's almost dead!" The other woman wipes angry tears from her eyes and stomps off in the direction of the College. Istha stares after her retreating back as J'zargo grunts and kneels next to her.

"J'zargo had nine younger brothers and sisters to take care of," he says quietly as he runs his hands over her unnaturally bent shin. "This one is a talented healer as well as a powerful mage."

Istha practically moans when warm heat flows into her muscle, and then unexpectedly the shards of bone snap together. J'zargo merely gives her a grimace as she glares at him for not warning her, and after a few more minutes of healing magic he holds a paw out for her to take.

"What's wrong with Brelyna? What in Oblivion is going on?" Istha demands.

"J'zargo is surprised and disappointed to see that you can talk now, and thinks you say too much for one with such small teeth," the Khajiit says as he helps her limp across the College's bridge. Several of the weaker sections have crumbled even further as a result of the strange explosion from the back of the College, and these are both narrow and icy. Istha has a sudden image of a dragon swooping above the bridge right in the spot where the railings are missing and grabbing unwary mages in its jaws. She shudders.

"Give me some answers, cat. I disappear for a few weeks and come back to find the damned College in pieces? Ridiculous."

"You can disappear again if you'd like, J'zargo does not need your help to rebuild the College," he responds with a disapproving sniff. "Dealing with the Altmer, well, J'zargo will let you do that."

"Atlmer?" Istha asks with a start. "You don't mean..."

"Ancano," J'zargo says with his furry lips curled back in a snarl.

They find chaos in the courtyard - a motley and bleeding collection of the College's residents gathered around a prone form lying splayed on its side on the stairs, like a ragdoll thrown aside by a child through with playtime. Istha's stomach lurches when she recognizes the blue and beige robes and realizes the Arch Mage lies dead. She never spoke much to Savos Aren... but she held a great deal of respect for the man. She bows her head for a moment.

"Is Winterhold safe?" Tolfdir asks, detaching himself from the group as they approach.

"Yes," J'zargo nearly purrs. "J'zargo and the others defeated many magic anomalies with little snapping mouths. J'zargo wanted to keep one as a pet, but his fire melted them all," he adds sadly.

"Tolfdir, what's going on?" Nirya asks worriedly. "Is it true? Did Ancano really kill Savos Aren?"

"I believe so," Tolfdir responds gravely. "Where have Brelyna and Onmund gone off to now? J'zargo, did your expedition find the Staff in Mzulft?"

"What staff?" Istha questions, feeling rather dazed. Tolfdir blinks in confusion at her, and Istha wants to smack herself when she remembers the entire College still thinks she's mute. She should have just kept her mouth shut. Stupid Paarthurnax changing her mind about this stupid Dragonborn thing she has to go along with. "Yes, I can talk. Tell me what I've missed."

"J'zargo and his group found the Synod attacked by ugly Falmer elves," J'zargo says. "Only one was alive, and he was very rude. J'zargo has some words to say to him, and maybe a spell or two to throw at his behind when this one sees him next-"

"The Staff, J'zargo," Tolfdir interrupts desperately. "I worry about bringing an artefact that powerful near Ancano, but I'm beginning to fear it will be the only way to stop him."

"The Staff, yes. Magnus and his Staff, J'zargo remembers. The rude man did not have the Staff, but he says it is in the Labyrinthian. Onmund is upset. J'zargo thinks he is a coward, but this is not a problem because J'zargo can go and get it. This one would have gone right away but Brelyna insisted we report, and now, look what we find," J'zargo says.

"I leave for a month and this is what you've come to?" Istha groans. "Don't tell me we have to go spelunking in some cave to retrieve this Staff of yours."

"We're going, you're not coming with us."

Istha turns to find Brelyna approaching them grimly. Onmund trails behind her, clutching some kind of metal beam twisted into a circle to his chest.

"Mirabelle's in poor condition. We just managed to get her out of Ancano's radius, Colette's with her now. Permission to leave for Labyrinthian right away, Professor?"

"Granted with a heavy heart, my dear Brelyna. I will see if Enthir and I can find some supplies for you, though it will be difficult on such a short notice. With both Savos and Mirabelle... I do not want to leave Ancano's activities unattended. Will the three of you be all right without further supervision?" Tolfdir asks.

"Four," Istha says, standing determinedly and trying to pretend she isn't leaning heavily on J'zargo's robed shoulder for support. "Four of us. I'm coming too."

"No you're not," Brelyna says without looking at her.

"Yes I am."

"Not on that leg."

"It's already healing!"

"Istha, I'm afraid Brelyna here is correct. You cannot disappear from the College and reappear a month later with no explanations and an injured leg, and expect not to face repercussions."

Brelyna huffs impatiently as Istha gapes at Tolfdir's serious expression.

"May I speak to her alone, J'zargo?" she asks, and the Khajiit detaches himself from Istha's weight and retreats.

"Brelyna, you have to convince them to let me go with you," Istha says. She's not even sure why she's so adamant about this - if this quest to retrieve the Staff they're all talking about is anything like going through Bleak Falls Barrow, she knows she'll hate it - but she realizes she's worried for her friends. She doesn't know J'zargo and Onmund incredibly well, but if something happened to Brelyna...

"Magic speeds up healing, Istha, it doesn't replace it. Your leg will be weak for another few days, and I can't have you dragging us down. Ancano already blew up half the College, if we don't come back soon, the other half might not be here either. I'm sorry, but you just can't make a trip like this yet. And don't you even think about heading to Aftland without me. Septimus gave me an attunement sphere that you won't be able to get in without, and you're not going to find where I put it."

"This is unfair," Istha argues, but she already knows it's hopeless. Brelyna reaches for the sides of her head to pull her closer, and kisses her forehead. Istha frowns at the contact. It makes her feel like a child. She's nearly a century old, for Azura's sake!

"I know, sera. Tell me about it when we come back," she says. Istha wonders when her carefree friend became so serious. If anything, Ancano will be made to pay for that at the very least. She watches the other apprentice mages set off without her just an hour later, armed with urgency and Enthir's supplies. When they are nothing but tiny figures against the snow's white background, she returns to the mages remaining at the College.

The College was never a particularily cheerful place, but with Ancano's ever growing dome of swirling magic, it feels like an entire shadow has fallen over Winterhold. Most of the non-magical residents in the town have been told to evacuate, and many of them leave for Windhelm that very day.

The people who remain at the College face their fate with grim faces and busy hands. Istha spends her time with Professor Colette, tolerating the other woman's terrible screeching voice in an effort to better her Restoration magic. Mirabelle remains unresponsive to their efforts to bring her back to conciousness, and Colette grows increasingly fretful with her and the other injured mages. When Colette kicks her out so she can 'think better', Istha wanders about the Hall of Attainment, peeking into barrels and under beds in an effort to find this attunement sphere that Brelyna spoke of. Unfortunately the Dunmer mage was right - Istha doesn't find it.

After three days, Ancano's sphere of magic has completely blocked off their access to the Hall of the Elements and the majority of the courtyard. Tolfdir grows uneasy.

After four days, Mirabelle dies quietly in her sleep. Istha has had it. She slips out of the Hall of Countenance and sneaks past Faralda - who knew how useful that invisibility spell would become? - and past Winterhold to the small stables where Betso finds his refuge from the wind and snow. He whinnies as she comes closer, and she's surprised but happy to see his enthusiasm when she pulls out an apple for him to munch on while she saddles him.

Istha pets his neck with a sad smile.

"Hey Betso," she whispers. "We're going to go avenge a few friends of mine. I hope you don't mind stretching your legs."

He neighs, and she sets off for Dawnstar with a grim determination. Brelyna and the others have a four day head-start. Even with Betso travelling at a full gallop along the coast's uneven shores, she doesn't think she'll catch up to them before they reach the eerie Labyrinthian they spoke of.

Still, she can't just sit and wait in the College while they risk their lives. If nothing else, sitting around and twiddling her thumbs while Ancano remains untouchable in his magic sphere kills her.

But Istha never makes it to Dawnstar.

Just before the port town, she stumbles upon a very large group of Thalmor soldiers picking their way around the camp of a very dead group of Stormcloaks. She draws Betso to a halt, and he neighs nervously as she considers her options. She has her bow and a quiver full of new Elven arrows, and they haven't seen her yet - courtesy of the mist rising off the sea - but there are just too many of them.

She has a feeling in her stomach that resembles having swallowed an entire troll skull. Something tells her she knows exactly where these Thalmor are headed, and for what purpose. Tolfdir and most of the others are intellectuals - not battlemages. They would try negotiating with these intruders, and would be slaughtered for their efforts. She cannot leave them to that fate.

Wind blows a few loose strands of dark hair into her face, and an Altmer man turns his golden gaze upon her as the fog shifts with the breeze. Istha swears quietly. _Time to go._

The Thalmor do not follow her as she returns up along the coast she rode down on, but she feels those golden eyes on her back the entire trip.

 

..........................................................................................................................................................................................

 

If the College was as quiet as a temple before, it is as oppressively silent as a crypt now. The town is abandoned. Ancano's sphere hums with uncontrolled magical energy, and shocks anyone who steps too close to its ever-growing radius. The Thalmor are marching in on Winterhold. Istha spends the next two days preparing furiously. Faralda is desperate - she knows she can't make adept Destruction mages out of everyone in the College, but she's still determined to try with Istha and a few other willing victims. For the first time since Istha's enrolment, Faralda encourages her to 'make the fire bigger'.

"Bigger is better," she says distractedly. "What's that you said? Control? Oh, bother that. Just set everything on fire."

Istha wonders if she should mention the helpful little Shout Paarthurnax taught her. The Word wakes her up at night sometimes. The dragons shift uneasily inside Istha, but remain dormant. Her will is stronger than theirs - they are dead and she is not, and as long as this holds true they cannot force their language out of her mouth.

 _Only if I'm desperate_ , Istha reminds herself as the first moonstone-clad figures march into Winterhold. She and Faralda stand at Tolfdir's shoulders on the bridge, just before a section with crumbled railings. Their plan is to destroy what remains of the bridge if things go very badly, but Istha hopes it won't come to that. She doesn't want the attention of the Thalmor on her.

Tolfdir is solemn as the Altmer soldiers file onto the bridge in pairs. He was named Arch Mage after Mirabelle's death - quietly, and without fanfare. There will be no celebration, not now.

A Justiciar stands at the head of the silent troops that halt just before the ruined portion of the bridge. Istha lifts her chin defiantly as his amber eyes flicker up each of the three College members in turn. He looks like a rancid smell is hanging in the air under his perfectly straight golden nose, and she has a strong urge to drive it up into his brain. Not all Altmer are bad - in fact, Faralda is a perfectly wonderful individual when she's not badgering Istha to hand in her essay on the advantages and disadvantages of focusing on one branch of Destruction magic instead of diversifying - but these are Thalmor. These are the men and women who killed Kirstte, and Savos Aren, and Mirabelle.

And Istha resents them for it.

"We've come for one of our own," the Justiciar says, his voice loud and as cold as Winterhold's winds. "Ancano. If you turn him and the magical artefact he has confiscated over to us, no harm will come to you or your precious... _College_."

"I'm afraid Ancano is unreachable at this time," Tolfdir says gravely. "You're welcome to try to-"

"No," Faralda interrupts. "With all due respect Arch Mage, I am the bridge's guardian, and it is my duty to allow only prospective students onto the College grounds. Even if the entire Thalmor squadron present today wished to enroll to study peacefully - and I highly doubt that is their intention - we simply do not have room for so many. The College is an elite organization, Justiciar. I won't allow you in."

"You won't _allow_ me?" the Justiciar sneers, his slender features contorted with fierce anger. Istha holds her breath, hardly daring to move a muscle as Faralda stares him down and Tolfdir looks from one to another with an agonized grimace. "And if I want to tear down your College's walls, I suppose you won't _allow_ me that either?"

"Correct," Faralda says levelly, though Istha can see a little bit of apprehension enter her eyes.

"My dear Professor," the Justiciar says in a disturbingly serene voice, "You are missing three students, are you not? A Nord, a Dunmer, and one of those distasteful... cat-things. Tell me. Are my scouts accurate?"

Istha is suddenly on fire inside. Her dragons are wide awake, pacing furiously in the confines of her body. She sways slightly, feeling a terrible headache coming on as she struggles to rein in their anger. _Brelyna and the others are okay - they must be. They have to be._

"We have sent one of our top agents to, ah, dissuade them from their little trip. They will be coming home in shackles. If you do not stand down and let my men enter your College... well, they won't have a home to return to at all," the Justiciar says.

"That is hardly necessary!" Tolfdir says, his hands out with the palms facing skyward as though seeking peace. He'll find none on the tension-filled bridge. "Our College remains neutral in Skyrim's civil war, and as such you have no business with our students!"

"Everything is my business," the Justiciar sneers. Veniizahkrin growls quietly behind Istha's temples.

"Stick your business up your ass where your head is!" Faralda suddenly snaps, and there is a horrible stunned silence that stretches for an eternity as the Justiciar's contorted face turns purple and he steps forward, past the safety of the remaining railing. Istha sees his hand come across in slow-motion, arcing towards Faralda's face.

At the sound his palm makes when it comes into contact with Faralda's cheek, Istha loses her inner battle with her _dovah_ souls.

 _Fus!_ they scream in unison, and the Justiciar doesn't have time to scream before the force of her Voice throws him straight off the crumbled bridge into the deep gorge below. She doesn't watch him fall - that distance is unsurvivable, and to the best of her knowledge no spell exists to let someone fly. She is already moving into defence against the rest of the Thalmor squadron, who have recovered from their shock and are now reacting with drawn weapons and charging spells.

Istha hears cries of _'Dragonborn!'_ and _'murderer!'_ and _'Long live the Aldmeri Dominion!'_ but there is no time to process them - she and Faralda cast every rune in their arsenal on the small section of the crumbled bridge remaining between them and the angry soldiers, and the air in front of her shimmers dizzyingly with Tolfdir's wards.

She Shouts again, a furious cry of _Yol!_ that tears from her lungs and sends the first few rows of Thalmor up in violent flames, then Tolfdir's hands are dragging her backwards and Faralda closes the gates behind them. She is dumped unceremoniously at the foot of one of the pillars that holds up the shelter above the circular walkway. Ancano's sphere of influence hums just a few steps away.

"What have you done!" Tolfdir cries out. "We do not attack the Thalmor, I repeat, we! Do! Not! Attack! the Thalmor!"

"It is my fault, Arch Mage," Faralda says miserably. "I lost my temper and insulted him, I just couldn't stand the thought of losing more students..."

But Tolfdir has eyes and ears only for the shivering and frustrated Dunmer woman at his feet.

"And that, that yelling! That was no magic I've ever seen. You're Dragonborn, aren't you?"

Istha nods slowly. Understanding slowly dawns on her, and her insides clench in horror as she realizes what she has done. She has revealed herself to an entire squadron of Thalmor mages and soldiers who had more than enough time to see her face as Faralda and the Justiciar traded heated words. She drops her face into her hands and moans quietly.

"Are you hurt?" Faralda asks, crouching beside her. Istha shakes her head.

"Good," Tolfdir says grimly. "Because you need to leave. Now."

"I was going to anyway," Istha says, finally looking up. Her Alteration Professor's face is lined with worry and disappointment. "I have to go after Brelyna and the others."

"I... I should not encourage you to do that," Tolfdir says. "But if that is what must be done to protect our students... Please, just make it clear that you do not act against the Thalmor on behalf of the College. I'm sorry, but we must remain politically neutral. It is the only thing that guarantees our safety and continued existence."

"We wish it didn't have to come to this," Faralda says sadly, extending a hand to help Istha stand.

"We expel you from the College's ranks with heavy hearts," Tolfdir says. Istha bites her lip and hesitantly holds her hand out for him to shake. To her surprise he takes it and uses it to pull her into an apologetic embrace. "Please understand that I have to look after the College," he whispers into her ear. Istha nods curtly and pulls away. She understands these things, though they don't make her happy.

"Get your things from the Hall of Attainment and come quickly," Faralda says. "There's a trapdoor in the Hall of Countenance that will lead you to the Midden. If Ancano's dome hasn't blocked that off too, there should be a path through that takes you outside. It's a hard climb, but I don't dare risk letting you leave through Winterhold."

Istha decides not to mention that she will need to sneak into the town anyway to retrieve Betso from the stables. She can't leave him there with nothing but the cruel Thalmor for company, and she'll never catch up to the other apprentices without him.

There is not much that Istha has to pack, but she pauses in the centre of the hall she shared with her fellow students and looks around it, trying to commit it to memory.

 _First the Cistern, now the College._ It seems she has been saying goodbye far too often lately. She shakes her head and follows Faralda to the Hall of Countenance.

 

..........................................................................................................................................................................................

 

It takes her four days to find Brelyna and by the time she and Betso stumble upon the ragged camp where three figures are huddled miserably in the snow around a dying campfire, she is so sick of the clairvoyance spell that she thinks she might punch Onmund in the face for showing it to her to begin with. Except that Onmund isn't there. Brelyna and J'zargo are tied together with magic-resistant rope, their heads hanging and defeated. The third figure is not the withdrawn Nord man she knows but a Thalmor balancing a staff on his knees

She buries an arrow into the back of his neck before he can spot her, and hurries towards her two classmates. They hardly react as she unties them; a bad sign. J'zargo's whiskers are glazed with tiny icicles, and tremble weakly as he stirs.

"Where's Onmund?" Istha asks, lightly slapping some conciousness into the sides of his face. He doesn't answer. Brelyna is no better off, and Istha's heart falls as accepts the Nord's unspoken fate. It isn't too late to save the other two mages, however, so she busies herself by wrapping her travelling cloak over their hunched shoulders and melting snow in a pot over the campfire. It doesn't boil fast enough for her tastes, so she also sets it on fire.

There is not much else of interest to loot from the meagre campfire, but she does take the staff that the Thalmor agent is clutching in a death-grip. There's no other staff present except for J'zargo's fireball staff, so this must be it. She doesn't think it looks very impressive until she touches it and it shocks her. She wraps it warily in linen bandages so it won't make contact with her skin and straps it over her back along with her bow.

A bubbling sound behind her announces that the water has started to boil. She sprinkles blue and purple mountain flowers into the brew and stirs the tea - the same one Colette taught her to make for Mirabelle and the other injured mages - with a clean lockpick. Her friends are too weak to hold down a proper meal right now, but the tea will give them just enough energy to hang on.

 _And hang on they will have to_ , she thinks grimly as she barely succeeds in getting them both seated on Betso's back. Luckily there's no risk of her even-tempered stallion trying to buck off its two barely-concious passengers, but she is wary of leading him along at anything faster than a walk. Istha feels incredibly vulnerable on foot with two deadweights to take care of.

Forget Skyrim's ordinary dangers - wolves and bears and roving skeever packs she can take on alone. Perhaps even a troll, if she's brave enough to experiment with the mysterious staff strapped to her back. But if a dragon decides to have them for lunch, or she comes across more Thalmor patrols, they're dead.

Against all odds, they reach Dawnstar the next day without a great deal of trouble. Dawnstar is technically controlled by the Stormcloaks, which means the Thalmor can't walk around in broad daylight, but that didn't stop them from travelling up the coast to Winterhold so she remains wary. Inns are too obvious, but quietly revealing J'zargo's shivering frame to the Khajiit caravan that camps just outside the town ensures the three mages a place to sleep. Istha hangs back as the Khajiit traders take her sick classmates into their tent and fuss over them with their strange, raspy voices. They don't ask questions, for which Istha is grateful. They just wrap J'zargo and Brelyna in furs not unlike one swaddles a baby, and allow them to spend the night in the tent.

They seem reluctant to let Istha take a feverish J'zargo away the next morning, though she does her best to explain that they need to return to the College, and that they will be cared for there. It's hard to understand the response of the Khajiit traders under their heavy accents, but they seem to get the gist and tickle her cheeks with whiskery kisses as they bid her goodbye.

The Staff begins to hum with energy the closer they get to Winterhold. Istha swallows back her nervousness when she sees the glowing orb that has encompassed the entirety of the College, and knows she won't be able to get back into it the same way she left. Through Winterhold it is.

J'zargo and Brelyna are awake at this point, weak and shaky but concious. Brelyna claims the Thalmor agent - Estormo - kept them docile with a paralysis poison, but that it's mostly worn off now. No mention is made of Onmund. They dismount and tie Betso to a tree outside the town. He can chew through the leather strips if he needs to, but Istha tries not to think about that. The world will have bigger problems than one forgotten horse if she doesn't return.

At J'zargo's insistence, Istha unwraps the Staff and holds it nervously in one hand, as far away from her body as possible. The crystal sphere at its peak glows blue, and brightens the closer they walk to the College, until she can't look directly at it anymore. Snow melts beneath their exhausted tread, and Altmer soldiers burst out of Winterhold's buildings only to be driven backwards by the harsh light.

They walk straight up the bridge, and find the majority of the College's population huddled on a circular landing just before the radius of Ancano's glowing sphere. Tolfdir rises to his feet as they approach, followed by the other mages. It's evening, but the Staff is so bright that everywhere Istha looks it seems like daylight. She drives the peak of the Staff through Ancano's orb and the glowing magical barrier melts away from the point of contact.

Istha is dimly aware of the Thalmor soldiers camped out in Winterhold shouting and running up the bridge after them, but she pays them no attention. The gates are blown wide open, as is the door to the Hall of the Elements. Ancano is her target, and she finds him hovering before the Eye of Magnus. Magical energy in the hall is so twisted and condensed that she feels it spark against her bare skin as he turns to face her.

"You've come for me, have you?" Ancano laughs. "Silly girl. You think I don't know what you're up to? You think I can't destroy you?"

"Ancano, the Eye's power is too much for one person! You can't handle this!" Tolfdir shouts as he charges a fireball in each hand. "Istha, use the Staff on the Eye!"

She grips the Staff tightly in both hands and steps towards Ancano as he raises a hand with a dramatic air. Lightning arcs from the Eye to his fingers to Tolfdir, and Brelyna cries out as the elderly mage flies backwards. More lightning follows, leaving soot stains on the tiled floor wherever it lands. Ancano seems to be satisfied with the chaos he's created, and turns his attention to the slowly unfolding Eye.

Istha points the Staff at the glowing Eye desperately, letting the furious amount of magic that has built up inside of it to strike the orb's hard glass panes. She doesn't know what she's doing and the Staff is so hot in her hands that it feels like it's burning under her skin but she can't stop, can't let that orb open. Ancano shrieks a protest as it begins to fold in on itself, and struggles to pry it open against Istha's magic.

She's vaguely aware of the other mages fighting Thalmor soldiers in the hall around her, but she has eyes only for the Elf doubled over in pain in front of the Eye as it seals itself once more. Ancano struggles to his feet and whirls on Istha, his eyes burning with fury.

"My power is supreme!" he hisses at her, and lobs a thunderbolt at her. Istha staggers and screams as the sparks tear through her body, cramping her limbs and stealing her breath. She falls to her hands and knees, the Staff caught underneath her. Ancano advances with sparks dancing along the length of his arms. She looks up at him with disbelief.

 _This isn't how she's going to die. Not here, not at the hand of a power-crazed Thalmor maniac._ She struggles to stand and drops back onto her knees within seconds, but the determination remains. _One last chance._

Istha swings the Staff up, pointing its crystal peak straight at the humming Eye. A blast of energy seals it completely once more, cutting Ancano off from his unnatural power. Istha opens her mouth and lets fire engulf Ancano's writhing silhouette. Her two dragons shout their victory in unison - Istha and Odnahstrun and Veniizahkrin all blur into one.

She collapses once more as Ancano's burned corpse hits the floor. Without Ancano pouring magical energy into the Eye, it begins to twitch, haphazardly sending out tendrils of lightning. The world around her tilts and becomes strangely blue-tinged. An Altmer mage in strange yellow robes appears and kneels in front of her. She hisses threateningly, still riding the high of her union with her _dovah_ souls.

"Dragonborn," he says flatly. "Congratulations on your victory are in order, though we knew it was inevitable. My name is Quaranir. The Eye has grown unstable. It cannot remain here, or else it may destroy your College and this world."

"Now hold on just a minute," Istha says angrily, wiping away a trickle of blood from her nose. _I've really got to work on my magical endurance._ "I just killed one crazy maniac trying to control that damned thing. I'm not letting some other Thalmor agent swoop in and take it."

"I'm not with the Thalmor, but your skepticism is understandable given the dangerous nature of the Eye. You can trust me. I'm a monk of the Psijic Order. We'll be taking the Eye with us, and you'll be free to carry out the rest of your life. You have proven yourself a formidable mage, and you have our gratitude."

With that, two more yellow-clad monks step out of shimmering cracks in the air, and with Quaranir at the head they form a triangle around the Eye. All around them the College's mages fight back Thalmor soldiers, spells flying back and forth over Istha's head with dizzying speed. She watches, too weak and exhausted to move, as the Psijic monks raise their hands and disappear along with the Eye.

Then a sparks spell hits her right in the back of the head, and she goes down without another thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> Again, sorry for the delay. This is the longest I've ever taken to put a chapter up, wow. I had a rough week - lots of tests, one public fainting, also some emotional conversations held while feverish and slightly delirious (that had some interesting consequences.)
> 
> One more thing that distracted me away from writing the story was planning it out. Jumping back and forth in time was confusing the heck out of me, so I ended up making an entire excel document to figure out the events I still need to fit into this portion of the story. What started out as a little method for organization turned into a monster spreadsheet. I have to zoom out to 25% to see all of it. O.O
> 
> If you haven't already, mind checking out the little one-shot I posted? I have another one in progress as well, but it's as crackfic as it gets so I'm not sure it'll be appreciated. Anyway, see you soon! Something tells me that right now you're all a little bit more interested in what Larjan has to say...


	23. L - What the Cat Dragged In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M'aiq makes a small reappearance, bless his wandering heart.

**Minutes after Larjan's last recount.**

 

Larjan strips behind a bush, just down the sloped road that leads to Solitude's fortified walls. Maybe it would have been safer to keep the Imperial armour, but he can't stand the sight of it now, discards it like bloodied bandages covering a wound that just needed air this entire time. He'll take his chances in the plain clothing he wears. He survived a sodding dragon attack in nothing but rags, didn't he? The sword he keeps, though he knows it's wishful thinking.

 _You don't need it. You have the Thu'um,_ his dragons croon. But he doesn't - his throat hasn't recovered from the burns it suffered destroying the Embassy.

Down the road he finds a carriage driver and his wife packing crates of produce onto their cart, and though he has no gold with which to pay a safe passage with them, he gives them the amulet of Mara that rests around his neck. Silana gave it to him, said the Lady was watching over him. The wife smiles at him and gives him a blanket to put over his shoulders as he climbs into the back. They're not headed to Riverwood on this particular run - "too close to that damned Helgen" - but Whiterun is close enough.

"We're not going straight to Whiterun, dearie," she says. "Our daughter lives in Rorikstead, you see. We have some deliveries to make there as well, and now that you've given us this amulet - oh, our daughter will be very happy to see it. She's settled down with a funny-looking Wood Elf - we thought he was a strange fellow at first, but they seem to like each other so who am I to judge? - and they've been meaning to travel to Riften for weeks, but of course an amulet of Mara is so expensive and travel these days is a dangerous gamble... I think we'll be in Whiterun in about three or four days, sweetheart. Say, do you live there? Do you know anyone who would be interested in buying from us? Those dratted Khajiit shooed us away last time we tried setting shop outside the city walls..."

He doesn't mind the wife's incessant chatter, even finds it a welcome distraction. The sheer mundanity of it helps to convince him everything is okay - ~~Elenwen isn't trying to drag him back into that Oblivion-damned pit of despair, General Tullius sees him as more than just a secret weapon, he won't forever be a fugitive scarred with the mark of the Aldmeri Dominion.~~

 _Get yourself together_ , Sahloknir snaps.

Larjan is glad their first two days of travel are unmarred by attack - their rickety little carriage passes many Imperial patrols on the roads and though their presence makes his stomach clench with waves of fear, he knows they are the reason they haven't been attack by bandits yet.

The voyage passes without event until the third night, as they make camp one last time before they reach Rorikstead. He sleeps fitfully, has since ~~Elenwen~~ , and wakes from a nightmare not long after he went to bed in the carriage driver's spare bed roll to find his two travelling companions kneeling a short ways away on a rocky hill, heads bent together and hands clasped around a makeshift shrine. He watches their faces, illuminated from behind by Secunda's pale moonlight, lips moving frantically in prayer.

The shrine is not one he has seen recently, and he knows it to be the Divine missing from the Temple in Solitude. Larjan stands quietly and makes his way to the carriage driver and his wife. She startles as he approaches, and Larjan holds his hands up as she and the driver scramble to hide the signs of their worship with their shaking bodies.

"It's okay," he says quietly. "I don't mind. I was just hoping maybe... You could pray for me as well."

"We don't know what you're talking about," the driver says coldly, and Larjan knows that they know there was no way that he could have not seen the nature of their forbidden worship, but the wife looks close to tears and so he retreats to the campfire reluctantly, playing along. He lies awake for a long time after, thinking about Talos and wondering if the other Divines asked him what he wanted before he was made as god-like as them.

 _Of course he wanted to be one of them_ , Mirmulnir scoffs. _Every mortal craves immortality, Dovahkiin. You have gotten only a taste of it. But you could get so much more if you just..._

 _Shut up_ , Larjan thinks, and they do. ~~For now.~~

 

..........................................................................................................................................................................................

 

  
Disaster doesn't strike until noon the next day, when they arrive at a river and the carriage driver pulls the horses up so they can take a well-deserved drink.

Larjan hasn't bathed since he left Solitude and the front of his tunic is splattered with blood from a stray skeever that tried to raid the carriage and ended up crawling over a very displeased Larjan. He's never been bothered by a little bit of gore before, but when he sees it now ~~all he can think about is the Wood Elf whose name he never learned and J'aesire's cloudy eyes and all the others who passed in and out without an impression and~~ he wants it off. There's a few scratches on his arms as well, and he thinks he should wash those off and hope the skeever's claws weren't dirty.

The horses seem in no hurry to move along, so he wanders a little ways off from the carriage and wades into the river, clothes and all. It hardly comes past his waist but he undresses all the same, thankful for a chance to wash himself of the bloodstains. His arms sting as he washes away dirt from the scratches, and he has to force back memories of ~~poison and tiny tiny blades leaving tiny tiny beads of blood in their trails.~~

Then he hears the wife screaming.

The screams cut into his ears, nearly send him into a helpless ~~quivering mess shackled to a wall and unable to stand as a life ends in the cell beside him~~. But his feet carry him out of the river to the shore, where he finds the wife standing trembling with their dirty pots scattered on the ground around her. She screams again as he comes closer, and he looks around wildly - a mudcrab? A bear? Thalmor? But there is no one.

"Back away!" she shrieks as he takes another step towards her, and by this time the carriage driver has come sprinting with a rusty shovel in hand. The poor man sees his wife terrified out of her wits and the very shirtless and attractive young man standing in front of her and comes to the obvious conclusion. Larjan raises his hands in the air, completely bewildered about what's going on.

"Aldmeri traitor!" the woman shrieks again, jabbing a trembling and pale finger in his direction. "You are worse than scum to have that, that thing on your back!"

Realization hits him like a ton of bricks.

 ~~The brand on his back. The eagle of the Aldmeri Dominion.~~ The carriage driver lifts the shovel up, and Larjan runs. His dragons curse his 'cowardice' the entire way.

He doesn't know how long he runs, or where or how far, but eventually the world keeps tilting sideways and he has to stop and curl up in the sheltered overhang of a rocky outcropping because he's shivering ~~he can't stop, why can't he stop~~  and the cuts on his arms are inflamed and streaks of red bloom under his skin. He vomits to the side and can't find the energy to get up and move away from the smell of the meagre breakfast he managed to choke down earlier, so he doesn't.

He lies between the rocks for what feels like an eternity but must only be a few hours.

And then suddenly he finds a strange, cat-like face hovering above his, and groans as furry hands gently help him into a sitting position. Larjan doesn't realize he's been sobbing this entire time until the Khajiit tries to slip a potion past his chattering teeth and half of it spills down the side of his neck.

"Bah," the Khajiit says in a vaguely chiding voice, wiping with the back of a paw at the spilled liquid. "This one supposes you will now yell at M'aiq for putting potion in your beard. Nords are so serious about beards. So many beards. M'aiq thinks they wish they had glorious manes like Khajiit."

"What?" Larjan chokes out. "Who... What... The potion?"

"M'aiq can plainly see that you are sick. He remembered that he has a little remedy, and thought ah, why not give it to you?" the Khajiit says with a grin as he presses the rim of the cool glass bottle between Larjan's lips again. Whatever it is that the cat gives him burns as it goes down his throat, but just a few minutes later M'aiq pulls him to his feet and he finds that he can stand again, driven by an inexplicable strength.

"Off we go," M'aiq says happily, choosing a direction seemingly at random and hauling Larjan off in it. He coughs and struggles to keep up with the cat. Something is wrong with him - the colours of the world are too bright and biting, and often he puts his foot down on the ground only to find that the ground was significantly further - or closer - than he thought. And his limbs tremble and jerk with a mind of their own.

"I need to get to Riverwood," Larjan tells M'aiq weakly as the feline man rambles on about the declining butterfly population in Skyrim.

"Yes, yes. M'aiq will get you to Riverwood. Or you may get yourself. It is hard to say," M'aiq replies as he nonchalantly diverts Larjan around a giant camp. "Perhaps you will go further. You have drunk a little bit of Khajiiti soul today and it is going to your head. Heh, going to your head. There are some lands that would have M'aiq's head for his generosity, but not Skyrim. The people of Skyrim are more open-minded about certain things."

Larjan stops listening to M'aiq - the world is pulsating around him. The _dovah_ in Larjan are mysteriously sleepy, though something has them agitated. Sahloknir whines weakly and curls up underneath his wings. A few steps away, a rabbit the size of a house stops nibbling on a straggly juniper tree long enough to twitch its ears at him, and Larjan tries to ask M'aiq if rabbits have always been that big but his tongue is too heavy in his mouth, it is swelling and pressing against his teeth and blocking off his throat. He chokes, and his eyes roll back, and ~~then there is no more Larjan.~~

 

...........................................................................................................................................................................

 

  
He wakes up screaming.

The sound tears at his throat, reopening the wounds inside that have barely started to heal. The human body was built for shouting, not Shouting, and certainly not shouting after Shouting.

It takes him a moment to realize there is wood over his head - the wooden rafters standard to any inn in Skyrim - and not damp, _drip drip dripping_ stone. His back is against a soft bed, and not a cold wall to suck away any warmth his starved body might manage to gather.

It takes him yet another moment to realize he is strapped down. At this, he screams again.

He tastes blood in his mouth, and that ever-present bitterness of smoke ~~that no amount of honey seems to cover~~ , and still he does not stop. He can't be back - he can't be back already. Was this another trick, then? A meagre freedom of two weeks before he was dragged back?

There are hands pushing him back down against the bed, adjusting the ropes that tie him to the mattress and blurry faces peering down ~~anxiously~~ \- no, not anxiously! They are the enemy, they want to see him hurt, they want this!

"Dragonborn, please, calm yourself," ~~Elenwen~~ says in a voice oddly lower and lacking her haughty accent. "You're scaring my guests away."

 _Guests? She never tires of her euphemisms, does she? Guests, parties, refreshments._ He can't stand it. He struggles in vain against the ropes. Above him, a pale face with blonde hair swims.

"Dragonborn," ~~Elenwen~~ tries one more time, her hands reaching for his face. He snarls and bites down as those wretched hands come closer and is rewarded with the feel of flesh and bone under his teeth, with her pained yelp. He feels a fiery burst of victory - he has never once managed to bite her before, always gnashing down on thin air or his own tongue.

"Elenwen," he gasps in a feverish daze. "I'm going to kill you. You'd better never untie me because I'm going to tear your throat out if I ever get the chance."

"Shhh," she soothes, and suddenly the pale, worried face is above him again. "It's Delphine. It's me, Larjan. Delphine. I'm a friend, a Blade. You remember me. You're in the Sleeping Giant, you're safe."

 _Delphine?_ Yes, he was looking for her, before. His heart falls.

"They got you too?" he whispers.

"No, nobody got anyone. We're safe, Dragonborn. Your Khajiit friend brought you to Riverwood on his back, and I nearly called the guards on him when I saw what he had poured down your throat, but you're safe."

"M'aiq," Larjan says.

"Yes."

"Riverwood?"

"Yes."

He stares at her with wild eyes, his frantic breathing gradually slowing.

"Why am I tied down?" he asks.

"I'm sorry," Delphine says. "I realize now that was a bad idea. You had Ataxia, and you were scratching at your arms in your sleep. I thought it would be better. Stay still a moment, I'll untie you."

His eyelids feel so heavy, but if he closes his eyes with the sounds of roping unwinding in his ears the old panic returns, so he forces them to stay awake and stares at the wooden ceiling above him. ~~There's a gnarled knot in one of the rafters that looks a bit like a wolf, or if he tilts his head just so, its pointed ears become like a curled dragon with its wings bent near its body.~~

Delphine helps him sit up, and he casts his eyes everywhere but at her face. Her expression is too lined with worry for him, too... _Motherly._ He cannot bear it right now. Delphine is not his mother, though a small and boyish part of him wants to pretend she is, just enough to satisfy the loneliness in his chest.

"Are you hungry?" Delphine asks, and he nods dumbly. She brings him a simple meal, roasted salmon with minimal herbs and potatoes, but he can barely force half of it down. She does not press him to eat more ~~the way Kirstte surely would~~ , only nods and says she'll bring the rest back in a few hours. She changes the bandages on his forearms and back, and leans him back gently against the pillows. "Rest now, we'll talk later."

But he can't rest, and neither can the _dovah_. Now that the effects of whatever it was that M'aiq gave him - he is beginning to strongly suspect Skooma, or some unrefined substitute - are wearing off, they stir once more. The prowl begins anew.

 _You've licked your wounds long enough_ , Sahloknir sneers. _Get up. Give Delphine the dossiers. I can feel the dez rolling off of them. There is work to do._

Larjan doesn't want to get up.

_Pathetic. You call yourself a dov?_

_No_ , Larjan thinks. _I don't. I'm a man. I'm just a man. Nothing more and nothing less._

 _Dovahkiin_ , Mirmulnir threatens. _T_ _he dov do not lie down and die for anyone. Get up._

He doesn't want to. He wants to lie in the bed and hate himself forever and never get up because he's exhausted. He feels his fatigue like the weight of a herd of cows resting on his chest, and right now he doesn't care if it's from the Ataxia or from looking over his shoulder and flinching every time his tired eyes replace innocent bystanders with ~~her~~ or from the dragons in his head who won't shut up and are getting _louder and louder_. He doesn't care what caused it.

He just knows it's there and wants to give in.

So when at last his eyelids close of their own volition and the nightmares arrive, he has no energy to fight back. He lays shivering on the bed, half trapped between dream and the waking world, and lets the _drip drip drip_ of memory drown him.

 

...................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

  
Larjan is thirteen years old and the snow is piled up higher than his knees.

The night is bitingly cold and they've been walking for hours - he wants to go home. Let his damned father freeze. But Kjern won't let them turn back. _Another hour,_ he says. _We'll find him soon_. And Larjan has to listen, because Kjern is the eldest child at seventeen years old, and as long as their father is gone into the snowstorm and their mother is trapped at home dealing with Simmile's injuries, Kjern is in charge.

"He's not here," Larjan says, and he hates the way his voice cracks on the last word, hates the way his limbs go in every which way, no substance on the long length he hasn't yet grown accustomed to. Kjern looks like a man already, looks confident and determined as he glances over his shoulder and tells his younger brother to _shut up and take it like a Nord._

So Larjan holds on tighter to the silver dagger with the stiff and blue-tinged fingers on his left hand, and tries to step in Kjern's footsteps in the knee-high snow.

And somehow, they find him. He is curled up in a partially-melted snowdrift, entirely naked but radiating heat nonetheless. Kjern breaks a branch off a nearby tree and pokes him in the thigh, and they both raise their silver daggers a little bit higher, hoping tonight will be another one of the nights they won't have to use them. But then their father's eyes open and the irises are silvery-blue, not gold. And he sees his two eldest sons and smiles as he sits up, completely indifferent to the howling winds and his bare body.

"Hello, my children," their father says, and Larjan wordlessly holds out the spare fur cloak they brought. Their father stands unsteadily on two feet and fastens it over his shoulders, but it is more a gesture of humanity than it is necessary - their father does not feel the cold, and will not for another few hours until the heat of the transformation wears off.

He and Kjern take the lead, and Larjan dutifully trudges behind in their footsteps. He doesn't pay attention to the quiet conversation in front of him - Kjern is trying to ask if their father came across any humans tonight while not actually saying those words aloud, and their father is trying to ask if they came across any half-eaten bodies while tracking him tonight, again not actually saying those words aloud. It is a dangerous game that their family plays, this game of pretending between them that one day everything that they are dreading won't happen. They play it so well that Larjan spent the first eleven years of his life in a small hunting village near Whiterun without ever knowing the game existed. It wasn't until a tiny accident - a half-transformation, a flash of blooded teeth in the village marketplace - and Larjan met the Wolf face to face for the first time.

After that, they had to flee. The whole family uprooted because of one person's nature.

One day Larjan knows their father will lose control over the Wolf. He has seen glimpses of it already, and he will see another when they go home. Simmile will live, but she will bear his scratches on her arm for several more months to come. She didn't open the door fast enough. Larjan fixes his steely gaze on his father's broad back. He has seen the anguish on his face when he nearly loses control, nearly kills a family member when he is not himself.

Larjan isn't affected by it anymore - Doesn't consider him his father anymore. It hurts less that way. Mostly, Larjan ignores him.

But he never ignores the Wolf. He is always, always watching the Wolf that lurks underneath the surface of his father's skin, and he is never sure if he is frightened or awed or envious of it. _Maybe all three._

  
.................................................................................................................................................................................

  
Delphine can't read the dossiers.

That revelation hits Larjan like a warhammer to the chest. They have spent hours and hours of mindless work, putting the scorched pieces of paper together and trying to fit burns with burns, ink with ink, only to find that they are written in a language not well known in Skyrim.

"These dossiers must be important," Delphine says with a murmur as she examines a nearby scrap with a looking glass. "Everything I've ever managed to raid from their patrols has been written in Common, but this... This must be exactly what we've been looking for.

"And if it's not?" Larjan asks. "If she just preferred writing in Aldmeri?"

"We'll burn that bridge when we get to it," Delphine says. "For now, we assume. It will be difficult to proceed. Finding an Altmer willing to spend time to translate such a damaged work into Common or Nordic will be hard enough to begin with, but also making sure this Altmer has no ties to the Thalmor? Oh, Dragonborn. After everything you went through, I hoped this would make it half worth it..."

"The only thing that will make it worth it is Elenwen's head impaled on a stake," Larjan says darkly. Delphine does not answer for a long time, only moving her head side to side as she painstakingly copies the spidery handwriting on the ruined dossiers onto a more intact scroll.

"You'll have that one day," she says eventually. "I promise you that."

"I hope so," Larjan says. He sits a few more minutes at the table with her, sorting through the ruined bits of paper for scraps that are slightly less burnt, slightly understandable. And then his eyelids cannot stay up and he is dimly aware of her as she helps him back into bed for the rest he so desperately needs to recover. He grasps at her wrists, tries to tell her to stay with him.

"Please," he tries to say. Please. I know you're not my mother, but try to be.

But for once his _dovah_ do not take control of his mouth to speak - instead, they take control to keep him quiet. _Quit the whining_ , Sahloknir says. _Sleep, and tomorrow we will spread our wings again. You cannot tether yourself to these mortals. You are dovah._ Larjan closes his eyes.

The next morning, Delphine sets off for Falkreath, where she says she has an old Altmer friend who has seen too much death to consider turning her into the Thalmor and spurning another cycle of fatal revenge. Larjan only wishes her luck, and stares blankly at the wall in front of him as she adjusts her travelling gear.

"Larjan," she says finally, and he turns because he hears his name and she does not often chose to use it over his title. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," Larjan says duly. He is playing his usual game ~~trying to find shapes and meaning in the knots and scars of the wooden beams that make the inn, but today nothing is coming to mind and the restlessness of the dragons scatters any thoughts that might have half-formed.~~

"I... I should have done more," Delphine says, and Larjan does not answer. Eventually he hears a further rustle of clothing and buckles clanking together. She kisses his shorn hair with a quiet tenderness ~~that makes him ache for Kirstte~~ , and departs without another word.

 _See_ , Sahloknir purrs.

 _You can't rely on mortals_ , Mirmulnir continues, and though he is nothing but a disembodied soul Larjan swears he can _see-feel_ the dragon shaking his great spiked head. _Just dovah. Why won't you trust us, Dovahkiin? Why won't you do as we say?_

"Shut up," Larjan says aloud.

The wall does not respond. It cannot. It is a wall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you listen close, you can almost hear me swearing at the end of this chapter and throwing my hands in the air and saying 'fuck it, imma talk about a wall because I don't know where to end the action'.
> 
> Various reasons updates will be later for the next little while:  
> 1) What is plot - we're nearing the end of Part 1 and I'm trying to figure out where I want to take this story  
> 2) Schoolwork  
> 3) Significant other is finally coming home for good-ish and we've met four times in the last eight months so we have catching up to do  
> 4) My mother is trying to teach me how to cook a new meal everyday and I seem unable to avoid her despite my best efforts
> 
> So yeah, free time is suddenly greatly limited. We shall see, friends. I fully intend to finish this story with a bang. Hey... we've only got a few chapters from both points of view left. And then onwards to a slightly happier Part 2. Excited?


	24. I - To Kill a Dovahkiin

The winter solstice is only a month away, and with its approach, Winterhold's temperatures only plummet further. The cold is accentuated by the deserted town, by its sheer emptiness as its inhabitants have only just started to return from Windhelm. Without its people the town just seems like a broken, bled out corpse. The jagged edges of ruined houses are the dead's splintered bones. The harsh stillness that hovers over the moonstone-clad bodies piled haphazardly at the bottom of the gorge under the bridge is the last breath that never escaped the dead's lungs. And the small figure watching from the College parapets - _she_ is the dead's witness.

The figure is wrapped in several layers of blankets, but even so shivers in sympathy as a family of three struggles past the town's boundaries, all hunched over against the wind. Of course now the Nord population will fear and detest the College even more. Winterhold's Jarl returned just a day ago and spent the entire time raging about the mages to anyone who would listen instead of making sure his people were settling back into their homes.

Or rather, what's left of them. The Thalmor troops that occupied Winterhold just a few days ago were careless in their treatment of house and provisions, and most of the civilians came home to find their belongings scattered on wine-stained floors and outside in the street.

The sound of a door creaking open behind the figure on the parapets has her turning to see who has arrived. It's Brelyna.

"Hey," the Dunmer woman says by way of greeting, settling down next to Istha. "How long have you been up here?"

"All morning," Istha says quietly. "Arch-Mage Tolfdir and the others are trying to figure out what to do with me, and I can't say I really want to be there for the discussions."

"I'm sorry, _sera_ ," Brelyna says, and Istha reaches out of her cocoon of blankets to pull the other girl closer into an embrace.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, except for calling me _sera_ again. I've told you, we're not in Morrowind, and we're not strangers. How are your hands healing?"

Brelyna wrinkles her nose and waggles her fingers at Istha. The Dunmer suffered burn blisters on her fingertips as a result of too much Destruction magic not properly cast in the chaos of the fight, and though Colette's efforts had mostly healed them by the time Istha woke up from her week-long sleep, she still likes to check.

"How is your head healing?" Brelyna retorts. Istha shrugs and looks back towards Winterhold's pathetic array of buildings.

"All right. Still feel a bit dizzy from that damned shock, but I'll live. I'm more worried about the College," Istha says.

"I... I hope you don't get angry at me for saying this but..." Brelyna trails off.

"I know, Brelyna," Istha sighs. "They won't let me stay."

"Professor Arniel says you should at least be given the rank of Master Wizard for going up against Ancano and living," Brelyna admits. Istha snorts at this and pulls the blankets tighter around her. Damn this Skyrim and its cold and its inhabitants.

"Right. I'll be named Master Wizard, and then I'll be expelled all over again."

The two women are quiet for a while, staring out at the snow-covered landscape before them. They may have technically won a victory against the Thalmor, but Istha only feels like they've delayed a terrible loss. There will be more troops arriving soon, here to capture Istha and condemn her for murdering Ancano and the haughty Justiciar. Tolfdir will have no choice but to step aside and allow them to ransack first the town and then the College.

And when that time comes, Istha needs to be gone already.

"Tolfdir is encouraging all of us to go, actually. They say the Ambassador herself is marching towards the College, and we don't want to be here when she arrives... J'zargo is leaving this evening for Solitude, says he's going to go tell Onmund's family what... happened. And then he's going to find a caravan to hire him for protection and keep his head down."

"And you?" Istha asks eventually, turning towards an unusually sombre Brelyna.

"I..." Brelyna starts, and when she glances up at Istha her eyes are watering. "I want to go home. I hope you don't think badly-"

"No," Istha murmurs, but her heart has fallen and this must show in her eyes because Brelyna's lips start to tremble slightly.

"I'm going to stay awhile with my uncle in Solthstheim. He's apparently a complete nutjob, doing some kind of research on something called a Black Book, but that can't be any more dangerous than what's going on in Skyrim," she says with a nervous laugh. Istha cracks a smile at this, and looks down at her thin gray hands.

"I've got the artefacts Septimus gave me in my room," Brelyna continues. "If you come down with me, I can give them..."

"Yeah," Istha says distractedly, thinking of Aftland and her self-appointed task with newfound reluctance. "Yeah, I'll need those." She came to the College with the intention of meeting with Brelyna and then seeking out the Elder Scroll with her mage friend at her side, but now that she's heading back to Morrowind, Istha's motivation has rather faded. So many goodbyes... Istha travelled alone for the greater part of the year she spent in Cyrodiil, always keeping her head down, never drawing attention to herself until that fateful night Larjan caught her stealing eggs. It had been a spur of the moment decision to invite him along to Skyrim. Maybe because she had been so damn lonely. Maybe because she had heard too many stories. Maybe she'll never know why.

She turns her attention South instead. Early morning, so the thieves in the Cistern are stirring. She imagines the casual greetings, the playful conversation as they roll out of bed and make their way to the Flagon for breakfast or to Mercer Frey for something to do. She wonders how Cynric is. If Tsanvis and Enda flayed him alive for letting her get away. Brelyna stands suddenly, wiping snow-covered hands on the front of her blue robes with a shudder.

"Come on. I'm not letting you wax poetic up here all day," she says, extending a newly-dried hand to Istha.

"I'm not waxing poetic," Istha grumbles, glaring at the offered hand with narrowed red eyes. Brelyna giggles behind her other hand.

"Right, sorry. That's too romantic a term for you. Sulking is rather closer to the truth," Brelyna teases. Istha has half a mind to pull her down into the snow again, but instead gathers her blankets closer and stands on stiff legs.

"I could be romantic if I tried," Istha says as they descend into the College.

"Maybe if someone held a knife at your throat and demanded it," Brelyna agrees, and ducks to avoid a wet blanket to the face.There is a ghost of a smile on Istha' face as they reach the Hall of Attainment, but it vanishes once Brelyna starts rooting through her wardrobe to pull out a discreet burlap sack. "Have you even gone through a Dwarven ruin?" Brelyna continues far more seriously. Istha shakes her head, and frowns as the other mage shudders. "Consider yourself lucky. Mzulft was horrible. You've got to watch out for Falmer colonies - they keep these giant insect creatures called Chaurus as pets, too, make sure you have plenty of antidotes when you go in - and to top it all off most of the Dwarven defences are still functional, things like..."

Istha appreciates the lecture Brelyna gives on the dangers she should watch out for, but can't help but feel discouraged knowing that the closest thing she has to a friend now will be leaving for Morrowind soon. She makes up her mind before she even realizes. She's not going to Aftland now. Not yet. As much as she has tried to avoid the idea, she feels like retrieving the Elder Scroll is something... Something that both she and Larjan should do.  _Together._

Their fates are tied, whether Istha likes it or not. He got her into this Dragonborn mess with his _'let's repay Riverwood's kindness!'_ ideas and somehow the excessively honourable idiot grew on her. She wonders idly where he is. She'd have thought the revered Nord hero would have Skyrim's bards clamouring to be the first to tell the tales, and yet wherever she discreetly asks for any interesting news, he never comes up. Did he try to run from his fate, like she did? Why? It doesn't seem like him. Istha doesn't worry too much. Larjan can take care of himself. At most, his absence is a nuisance to her. It's awfully difficult to try tracking down someone who has made himself so scarce.

"Ah, there's J'zargo," Brelyna says, once again pulling her out of her musings. Istha raises her head to find their fellow classmate walk into the Hall of Attainment with a nervously swish of his long-furred tail.

"Greetings, gray ones," he says, and while Istha normally bristles at his casual references to the colour of their skin, she knows he truly doesn't see the harm. No matter how many times she or Brelyna singe his whiskers. "The Professors have decided. J'zargo wishes to bring you to them."

Istha follows J'zargo to the Hall of Elements, though the entire thing seems pointless to her. She cannot stay at the College, and is fully aware that every day longer she spends recovering here is another day spent putting the College's other inhabitants in danger.

She accepts the final verdict without question, bowing her head quietly as Tolfdir places a heavy hand on her shoulder, and lets it fall after a long moment. One by one, the Professors turn away and go their own way. Istha stands in the centre of the Hall for another few heartbeats, her gaze resting on the now-empty space in which the Eye of Magnus used to hang as it shadowed over every breath and movement within the College's walls, and likely beyond. How strange that after all the effort she and the others went through, first to claim it from Saarthal to learn its secrets, then spilling blood in the name of protecting it, nothing remains as evidence. Just empty space.

An observer might think Onmund died for nothing. An odd discomfort fills her from inside.

There are thoughts she has, when she is alone and scared, that her inevitable meeting with Alduin will leave noth- _No._ Istha cannot finish that thought. _Dovah_ do not fear battles, and while their blood runs in her veins and their echoes linger on within her skull, neither will she. And so she turns her back on the Hall of Elements, and then Shalidor's stone silhouette, and then all of Winterhold. When she has almost reached the spot where M'aiq the Liar found her frozen in the snow and nursed her back to health, she hears pattering footsteps and frustrated little huffs of breath behind her. Istha turns in Betso's saddle, and smiles as she sees Brelyna running to catch up to her slowly plodding horse. She whistles to Betso to draw him to a halt, and dismounts as the other woman closes the distance between them.

"You could have said goodbye," Brelyna scolds as she reaches Istha and catches her breath. In response, Istha takes the pack from her shoulders and slings it over Betso's back along with her own.

"I've been saying that too often lately," Istha responds absently, taking Betso's reins in her hand and coaxing him into walking forward through the snowdrifts that have nearly obscured the path. They walk beside the chestnut stallion, silence broken only by the crunch of their feet in the snow and the distant howls of roaming wolf packs. The closer they come to Windhelm, the more Nord families they see on the road, returning to Winterhold in small groups. Most take one look at the mage robes Istha and Brelyna wear over their leathers and give them no more acknowledgement than a brief scowl. That is fine by Istha. Magic is hard to comprehend for some.

Brelyna spends two more days in Windhelm with Istha, waiting for the next ship to come in. They try to enjoy themselves drinking Sujama in the Cornerclub and meeting up with Suvaris and other Dunmer Istha became acquainted with on her last (and very disastrous) trip to Windhelm. Once, at Brelyna's prodding, they even venture out of the Gray Quarter and into the market on the other side of the city, and poke around at all the goods for sale until the guards giving them dirty looks eventually start to tail them and watch their gray fingers as though they will dare to rob a stall in broad daylight.

Istha has half a mind to Fus one or two of them away and see if they improve their attitude after that, but Brelyna scoldingly tugs at the cowl that obscures her face and reminds her that Ulfric Stormcloak might have something to say about that.

"You should go back to Riften," Brelyna suggests as they stand on the bustling docks. Istha embraces her tightly, and they are two pebbles in a stream of busy Argonians and sailors that weave their course around the two woman on the docks without a second glance. "I'd tell you not to cause trouble, but you always do somehow. So you shouldn't stay in Windhelm any longer."

"I don't cause trouble," Istha says, her voice a little muffled as she presses her face into Brelyna's shoulder. The other woman smells like home beneath the biting scent of Skyrim's cold; she smells like Sujama and Golden Sedge and Horn Lilies. Istha's heart twists in her chest. It's been nearly two years since she left Morrowind, and she has half a mind to get on that boat with Brelyna.

Instead she pulls away and fusses with Brelyna's robes, avoiding the knowing eyes of the other Dunmer woman.

"I was... I was hoping you could do something for me," Istha begins hesitantly. The sailors on the boat Brelyna is to depart on are shouting commands to each other; checking the sails and tying down the last of the cargo and preparing to leave Skyrim's shores.

"Yes?" Brelyna asks.

"I have a letter. For the people who raised me. Would you... send it to Ald'ruhn for me once you reach Solthsteim?" Istha asks, her voice faltering when she sees the unsure look on Brelyna's face.

"...Ald'ruhn? Are you sure, Istha? There's not much left there after the eruption..."

"It was a Redoran hold before it was destroyed," Istha explains with a bitter, unamused smile. "The Larketh family still clings to that."

Brelyna smooths the confusion out of her face as easily as one wipes a table surface. She has her Dunmer features to thank for that, Istha thinks, and probably doesn't even know she does it. On a backdrop as invisible as a gray wall, it's easy to hide unwanted emotions.

"Of course," Brelyna replies eventually, plucking the letter out of her hand and tucking it into the fold of her robes. "I'm glad you're trying to make amends. This will be good for both of you!"

Istha winces at the unrestrained display of enthusiasm. Brelyna wouldn't be nearly as thrilled if she knew the contents of the letter.

"Now, don't look so glum. I have something for you as well," Brelyna says, slipping her pack off her shoulders. Her face is a little more serious than the forced cheerfullness Istha has seen on her since her second stay at the College. They haven't talked about what happened in Labyrinthian, about Onmund, but she hears her friend cry quietly in the night sometimes. "Here. It isn't so much a gift as a burden, considering I can't bear to look at it and even J'zargo thinks it is uncanny, but... I feel you will find more use in it."

"What is it?" Istha queries, taking the linen-wrapped package from her. It is about the size of her two hands put together, flat, and surprisingly heavy. Her hand goes to the strings that bind the linen together, but Brelyna's hand stills hers.

"Not here, Istha. You know how these Nords are."

She does. And she doesn't want to be left alone in their midst. She wants Brelyna to stay, wants her company and false laughter and quiet wisdom, wants to pretend they are two simple and happy travellers for a while. But Brelyna's hand falls from hers, and the other Dunmer woman takes a step back with a sad smile. Istha says nothing. Still, she makes an effort to smile and wave as her friend tiptoes across the gangplank onto the ship and promptly settles at its prow to watch the sailors untie the boat and pull away from the docks. Istha stands where Brelyna left her until the ship is a tiny speck at the mouth of the White River. Then an Argonian bumps into her and disturbs her sight.

"Out of the way, landstrider," he snarls, and her forearms press Brelyna's package protectively to her chest as he disappears into the crowd. She glances back at Brelyna's ship, but the fog has swallowed its tiny silhouette. With a sigh, she returns to Windhelm.

 

......................................................................................................................................................................................

 

  
She was a fool to assume Ulfric Stormcloak wouldn't find out about her presence, or didn't know all along.

His guards are waiting for her in the Cornerclub when she returns, intending to pay the cranky barkeep for one more night and then retreat to her room to examine Brelyna's strange package. Her plan goes right out the window when the six Nord men sitting stiffly at the table closest to the door stand at the sight of her. Istha stands rigidly in the doorway, casting furtive looks around the tavern inn as she considers her options. The inn is mostly empty, aside from two Dunmer patrons who stare rather unwelcomingly at what they consider to be Nord invaders in their safe haven. The barkeep is washing down the counter with a dusty rag, his eye fixed on her with a neutral expression.

"You have been summoned to speak with the Jarl," one of the guards intones. He hovers uncertainly at her side as the others surround her. After a moment he makes as though to grip her arm and she swats him away.

"If I go," she declares icily, "It will be on my own terms."

"The Jarl does not make requests, Elf. He makes orders, and they are followed."

Istha ignores the speaker and looks instead to the barkeep, who is still wiping at the same spot on his perpetually dirty counter.

"You sold me out," she accuses. "You dirty  _s'wit._ "

 _Dirty_ is one of the worst insults a Dunmer can give to someone of their race. Bad enough that men and other mer jeer at the ashen tones of the skin, but another Dunmer? To his credit, the barkeep hardly flinches as the guards press her out through the door. "My inn needs gold for repairs, _muthsera_. I take what I can get."

Istha fumes as the guards walk her to the Palace of Kings, thinking all the while about honour and betrayal and _the nerve of that man who dares to call himself Dunmer like her!_ The guards' shoulders rub against hers as they ascend the steps to Ulfric's foreboding castle and she does not realize the irony of her thoughts until the great doors are swinging open in front of her.

 _Honour, bah!_ Whatever has honour done for her? And what honour does she have on her own, without a bloodline or a surname or a Great House to call her own? She has been spending too much time in the country of Nords, letting them fill her head with tales of grandor and gallantry and petty titles like honorable. The barkeep was right to sell what information came to him so willingly. To each, his own. Yourself before others.

She is still berating herself for her blind trust and wishing she had paid the barkeep more for his silence when the guards bring her to a halt in front of the rather empty throne and finally step back to give her some space. Istha eyes the throne warily and turns on her heel in one crisp movement.

"Well, I guess something came up unexpectedly and he can't see me. Thanks for the walk; it was lovely but I really must be going now," she says airily as she starts back towards the doors of the hall.

"Leaving so soon, Dragonborn?"

Istha does not mean to come to a halt like the low rumble that comes suddenly from the side has any power over her actions, but she can't help it. She's surprised by his appearance. With a sigh, she looks over her shoulder at him and turns reluctantly.

"Have you nothing better to do than harass innocent elven damsels?" Istha complains as her red eyes meet Ulfric Stormcloak's blue ones. He snorts at her greeting, while the hall's other, unimportant occupants shift uneasily. There is too much power in one room. A large beast forced into small confines will undoubtedly lash out sooner or later. The question is, at whom?

"You are about as much an innocent damsel as I am a hagraven," he says as he emerges from what she guesses is his war-room, and walks closer to her. Their previous conversations have all been held while he was sitting, and she does not understand quite how big he is until he comes close enough that she can smell the scent of man on him, and beneath that, fainter, is that... _blood_?

"Would I be put for death for commenting that your reception is only slightly better than a hagraven's?" Istha dares to quip. She knows she should not say such things, not when she is still unsure of the intentions of this bear of a man towering over her, but her anger, slow to come on the walk here, is taking over and the bark of her _dovah_ is creeping into her bite.

Luckily, Ulfric only throws his head back and laughs.

"As long as you keep those remarks from the ears of Imperial bards, Dragonborn. I can't say that I want the songs of my enemies to remember me as 'slightly more welcoming than a hagraven.'"

"You laugh," Istha concedes, no trace of humour on her face. She isn't quite as amused by this banter as she would have been a few months ago. Things have changed, and a game of words and wits no longer holds the same value. "But I don't. So please tell me, dear Jarl, firstly how much gold you paid for my whereabouts - I've _always_ wanted to know what I'm worth - and secondly, what you want with me."

At first the Jarl of Windhelm turns away instead of answering, pulling out a chair for her at the long table down the length of the hall. She notes it is the only other chair at the table apart from the one beside it at the head of the table, as its sides are lined with mere wooden benches.

"Oh, Dragonborn. All I can say is that you are worth more gold than you think. Sit with me? Dinner will be served shortly. It will be simple food, I'm afraid. I don't like to eat rich while my people starve under Imperial oppression."

"With all due respect, I decline your offer and I'll be on my way shortly," Istha says curtly. It is a risky thing to deny one of Skyrim's Jarls to his or her face, but at least the veiled insult isn't nearly as... _open_ about her lack of affection... as the suggestions of the dragons whispering inside of her.

"With all due respect, you'll stay here. We have more to discuss than you imagine."

She presses her lips together thinly. There is a game of puppetry and politics playing here, and she does not want a part of it, but there does not seem to be another way out.

"Imprisoning a Dragonborn might seem like an unforgivable act to some, Ulfric Stormcloak," she warns quietly. 

"To some," he agrees. "Luckily for me, others have already committed unforgivable acts. In the middle of a war, what's one more?"

"What do you want?" she asks with a tired sigh.

"Nothing it would pain you to give," Ulfric Stormcloak says with wide, earnest eyes. He spreads his arms open in a gesture of innocence, and she can see the unspoken lies written in the lines of tension on his forehead and around those wide blue eyes. "Just a few hours of your company at my table."

Istha looks down at herself. She is dressed simply, in her worn and stained leather armour. It's plainly visible that it's seen better days, and the fur travelling cloak she wears overtop can hardly disguise this while it's in a similar condition.

"My appearance is hardly fit for a Jarl's court," she declares almost desperately. This is her last chance to weasel out of this arrangement, unless, of course, she decides to follow her _dovah's_ suggestions to 'burn everything down!' The _dov_ are far too entertained by flames, she decides, but she can't fault them for a pleasure of her own.

"Nonsense," the Jarl insists, his hand holding the back of the chair so hard the knuckles turn as white as snow. "You are perfect just like that. You look... Wild."

She sits. There is little else she can do. He does not look at her as he takes his seat in the chair beside her.

Istha expects the unwelcome conversation to die down once the food is brought out, but it seems Azura doesn't feel like granting a little light in the darkness today. So she gives slow, deliberate smiles to each and every one of the Nord men that come forth to be introduced to her by Ulfric, and finds grim pleasure in the way their own smiles become a little more strained at the sight of her bared teeth. She knows they don't like her - she is the wrong race, the wrong gender, the wrong height and colouring and _attitude_. But she is the only Dragonborn they have right now, and so they have no choice.

There are far too many names for her to keep track of - her once-mother did try to teach her the intricacies of politics and parties, but Istha remembers now that she never had a head for such a thing. Enda had, of course, but Enda hadn't been welcome in the house for years, purely because she _'betrayed her Redoran loyalty by playing with that magic of hers'_. Istha hadn't thought it necessary to enlighten her once-mother on her own secret aptitude for _'that magic'_ , the very thing that had brought her and Enda together as friends.

She finds unexpectedly that she misses her childhood friend. Enda would know what to do in Istha's place, as Ulfric Stormcloak loads her plate with the choicest selections from each platter of food, and her head spins with conversations at every corner of the hall about alternate supply routes to the Western Stormcloak camps that don't require Whiterun's allegiance, or how the training of new troops is coming along, or about how they should send more troops up to Dawnstar or risk losing control of the upper part of The Pale. Enda would know how to weave her own agenda into the dinner topics.

Ulfric Stormcloak does not speak very much in the number of words he uses, but Istha does notice that he has at least a few words for every guest at his table. For the most he lets them relay their troubles, and listens. She'd be impressed if she hadn't already anticipated his capacity for manipulation.

He'd make a fine king for Skyrim, except... _Oh, what were the words?_ She read a book once that put the matter quite eloquently. Something along the lines of power being best given to those who want nothing to do with it. Ulfric Stormcloak is a man who knows how to wield power, surely, but she could see his desire for it causing just as much harm as good.

Although, by that standard, Istha herself was the perfect choice to have dragon blood running through her veins, being the person who wanted it least. She laughs aloud at this, and heads stir her way.

"What do you laugh at, Dragonborn?" Ulfric Stormcloak questions, piercing her with that haunting blue gaze. Her smile fades.

"My Jarl," Galmar Stone-Fist says from his place at the Jarl's other side. "Your announcement, and the due congratulations, are in order."

"Very well," Ulfric Stormcloak stands. His heavy fingers closes around Istha's wrist, so close to her palm that his iron grip walks a fine line between holding her captive and holding her hand. His booming voice rings out in the hall, loud enough that no one can mishear the next, _impossible_ words he says. "I propose a toast to the Gray Dragonborn, the new champion who has pledged herself to the cause of the Stormcloaks!"

Istha's mouth hangs open in shock as cheers erupt around the hall. Tankards bang viciously on wooden tables, the bard in the corner begins a jaunty new melody to rouse the already feverish blood in the guests, and her grief goes unnoticed by all except the Jarl.

"Smile, Dragonborn," he says quietly so only she can hear. "Smile, unless you want to doom us all to the hands of the Thalmor."

His hand on her wrist, holding it so high in the air in a mockery of victory that she needs to stand on her tiptoes, is as strong as any metal shackle. She searches for the air to breathe, to Shout. She has thrown him backwards with her _Thu'um_ once and she will not hesitate to do it again - but her voice does not come to her in her shock, and Galmar Stone-Fist watches her from the side with eyes like glinting swords.

Istha closes her mouth, and twists her lips upwards into a grimace, all teeth and no love. But in the drunken and desperate eyes of Windhelm's most powerful men, it might easily be mistaken for a smile.

 

.......................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

There is no solitary peace until hours later in her bedroom-cell, but she finds it at last, and with something bordering on gratitude. The knots in the strings are tied so tightly that she does not even bother trying to untangle them, but instead uses a tiny flame on the tip of a finger to burn clean through the thin rope. The linen falls away, and the heavy shape of a metal face is revealed to her.

Istha raises it to her eye-level, stares into the faintly shimmering surfaces of the mask. _Moonstone_ , she thinks, but she could be wrong. She's never seen anything wrought from moonstone quite like... like... _this_. She can feel cold magic radiating off of it in thick waves.

She raises it impulsively to her face, and finds that it fits almost far too well. Something sparks within her - something limitless. A tiny slip of paper falls into her lap, and she puts the mask down for a moment.

 _Morokei_ , it reads.

Istha knows the name, remembers it just enough to place it as one of the named Dragon Priests of an ancient and nearly forgotten past. She'd nearly torn the Arcaneum apart, looking for any scrap of material on anything to do with dragons, and come across one measly scroll.

One measly scroll is enough. _Morokei._ So this was the horror that greeted her fellow apprentices in the depths of Labyrinthian. No matter. She will put the dead priest's mask to good use.

 _Glorious_ , she thinks. How strange it is that the dragon language comes to her so quickly now, like a scorned lover still jumping at an opportunity to make it back between the sheets. Istha knows a little bit about scorned lovers. Wasn't she one, just two years ago? No matter. There are more important duties at hand.

 

..........................................................................................................................................................................................

 

She sneaks into Ulfric's bedchambers that night, after the merriment has finally settled and the guard that stood outside of her bedroom-cell had slumped against the wall snoring. His mouth was open, so she'd taken the liberty of pouring a little bit of sleeping draught down his throat.

The Jarl's guards had been a little more difficult to deal with, but it seemed her invisibility trick had many applications. The mask makes it easy, all so easy. It's like an ocean of magic lay at the disposal of her fingertips, a larger reserve than she had ever had access to with all the magicka-raising trinkets she'd acquired at the College. She hadn't drawn blood from the Jarl's guards, hadn't wanted to spark an accusation of treason, but neither would they be disturbing her for a while.

Istha wonders to herself what she means to do as she steps into the darkness that is Ulfric Stormcloak's bedchambers. _This is not assassination_ \- she is not that stupid - _but neither is it a friendly chat in the dead of the night._

Except that the bed is empty. She takes Morokei off and holds it loosely in one hand. It obscures the sides of her vision too much.

A breeze stirs her black hair, let down in loose chunks along the length of her back. She turns, and finds him by an open window, sitting at a tiny table with a barely-touched bottle of mead in his large hands and dressed in little more than a pair of linen trousers.

"I'll admit I'm surprised to see you in my chambers, Dragonborn," he says wearily, but he seems more exhausted than antagonistic, and when he doesn't call for the guards that won't be able to answer him, she steps forward. The breeze from the open window is freezing, but he seems not to even notice it. "But I'm afraid I must decline nonetheless. My relationship with you ends at politics. I haven't had a woman to warm my bed in years and a Dark Elf won't break that celibacy no matter how many damned lizards of old legends bounce around her head."

"I don't want to warm your bed," Istha says, half angry and half petulant. "Oh, _Azura_. That's disgusting. How could you think- _No_ , you asshole. You want politics, you'll get politics. Explain to me exactly what happened out there tonight, and why I shouldn't slit your throat for it."

He laughs. He laughs, the arrogant bastard! He hadn't even drunk that much!

"That's more like it," he says. "Mead? I'm afraid it's quite Nord in its taste and strength, but you may like it nonetheless."

Istha gives him a rather rude suggestion about where to put his mead instead, and when he just chuckles quietly she takes the bottle from between his hands and throws it against the opposite wall. It shatters, as expected, and the undrunk contents trickle down the cold stone like spilled blood.

"You mentioned the Thalmor," Istha prompts. Ulfric sobers quickly enough.

"Istha, Istha, Istha," he says, and it is the first time she can remember him saying her name instead of calling her Dragonborn. "You may have lived more years than I have in quantity, but I outnumber you in experience. You cannot rush in without a plan and a troop of strong men and women. Please, don't let your emotions drive you to foolishness. The Embassy is rumoured to be razed to the ground after all, Northwatch is impossible to take, his whereabouts gone up in smoke-"

"Embassy?" Istha interrupts. "The Thalmor Embassy? _Whose whereabouts?_ "

Ulfric Stormcloak watches her evenly with that gaze of his that makes her want to stick a dagger in between his eyes, that gaze that looks like it's seen the end of the world and been back.

"You mean to tell me you don't know?"

"Know what?" Istha presses. There is something nagging at the back of her mind, a growing fear that something is terribly terribly wrong and she is missing the most important puzzle piece of all.

"Where have you been the last few weeks?" Ulfric asks, and she wants to pick him up - all of him no matter the fact that he weighs three of her in muscle alone - and throw him out the open window for answering her question with a question of his own.

"Travelling," she says curtly. "That, and lying comatose in Winterhold for a week after I murdered several important Thalmor representatives."

The Jarl of Windhelm, self-proclaimed rightful High King of Skyrim, sighs heavily and turns his knowing gaze to the sight of gentle snowfall outside his window.

"Oh, Dragonborn. A few murdered Thalmor is just the beginning. The Thalmor had Thane Larjan Silvereyes imprisoned for seven weeks until, mysteriously, their Embassy burned down quite spectacularly."

He says more after that, about spies in Solitude and General Tullius, but she hears nothing. There is a dull ringing in her ears, and she realizes with faint detachment that her dragons are roaring in her head, screaming for blood and vengeance and _the other one is weak now, take him Dovahkiin! Take him and his false souls!_ She thinks of golden skin and honeyed eyes, and the tightness with which Ulfric Stormcloaks moves sometimes when he thinks no one sees, and the human part of her understands that nothing will ever be the same again.

Istha has been pierced with mage-ice before, with frozen spikes and frostbite that made her outer self feel like it would never know warmth again. But nothing has every frozen her insides like this, no matter how deep the ice stabbed, and she knows duly that it is not magic but an idea that has her rooted to the floor of Ulfric Stormcloak's bedchambers.

An idea, a passing thought, a promise **-**

_"It is our way, tiidkiir. A dovah's first instinct is to dominate over the others - alone. Enarah. We do not like to share power, and violence comes too easily to us."_

**-** that no one hurts her _Dovahkiin_. Her frozen hands curl into tight, shaking fists. She and Larjan are one and the same, cursed and blessed with the same blood. And when her _Dovahkiin_ is defeated for good, it won't be on the sword of the Thalmor, or anyone. Larjan Silvereyes will die at her hands, or she will die at his, or Alduin will take them both.

Because nothing kills a _dovah._

Nothing kills a _dovah_... except a stronger _dovah._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an eternity late, and I'm sorry. Istha kinda grew a mind of her own and charged off in a completely different direction than I intended. I had to stop and consider if I could tweak the plot to make it work. Also I was very very sick, and started late. 
> 
> Larjan's next part will come quicker, since I actually know where he is in this part of the story! I'd say we have... oh, two chapters for each POV left before they're reunited... and part one ends. 
> 
> On the plus side, Ulfric Stormcloak! In my opinion, the game did a really shitty job of dealing with a civil war that had spectacular plot opportunities - and well, my job will probably also be shitty, but maybe slightly less shitty because at least I'm touching on a few issues - so the civil war quests will be completely different. 
> 
> I started reading Game of Thrones while I was bedridden and the politics are to die for. You could say I'm inspired.


	25. L - The Third Half

_Riverwood could almost be considered warm_ , Larjan thinks. Certainly not as temperate as Cyrodiil's rolling green hills and lightly-forested valleys, but at least there's only a light dusting of snow on the ground. He's not quite that ready to embrace his Nord heritage and dive head-first into the cold. Four years spent South will do that to a person.

Still, he can't hide away in the Sleeping Giant until Delphine comes back. He sleeps for the majority of the first day she's gone, because all those healing potions make him drowsy and sedate and she's not around to tell him not to down them like tankards of ale. Eventually he stops, but only because the potions remove not just the feeling of pain from his beaten body but also other feelings, like that of his bladder wanting attention. Pissing himself takes away the high of being pain-free.  _It may be a long trip_ , she warned. In the days before the dragons it might have taken a day to Falkreath and a day back, but only the foolishly brave still use the road that passes through Helgen's ruins. She'll be taking a detour, and without her, he finds himself at a loss for what to do. 

He tries to remember a time when he didn't live from order to order, employer to employer. He's been running errands since he came to Skyrim, and the realization makes him frown. The mill owner, the Jarl of Whiterun, the Graybeards, Delphine... and before that, three years spent in prison for a misunderstanding, and before that, he travelled on the whims of whoever would pay him to guard their passage through Cyrodiil.

It's been nearly five years since Larjan Silvereyes did something because he wanted to.

So when he finds the courage to step outside of Delphine's inn alone for the first time, he asks himself what he wants to do. A man not scarred by the Thalmor might have decided to go hunt down bears or maybe that hagraven that is rumoured to have made its nest South of here. Larjan decides instead that he wants to hammer things into submission.

Alvor's forge, though not nearly as inviting to him as Beirand's sheltered nook in Solitude, is a welcome refuge. From dawn to dusk the next few days, he enjoys the feeling of the hammer in his hand and the sweat on his bare chest as he pours his heart and energy into bashing metal ~~instead of the grinning Thalmor skulls in his dreams.~~

On the third day, the kind man offers to help outfit Larjan in some basic armour to replace the various sets he's lost lately, and after some hesitation Larjan stands still and allows the man to take his measurements and modify a chestpiece he already had started.

"Count to thirty!"  
  
Riverwood's children have gathered outside, dressed in brightly dyed sweaters and scarves to play games. Larjan closes his eyes and focuses on their chatter as Alvor mutters under his breath about him being too damned skinny.

"I can't count to thirty!"

"All right, count to ten three times! Now!"

The children scatter. The unfortunate young boy chosen to count begins his recitation in a loud, wavering voice. He has trouble remembering the number eight all three times.

"Come out, come out wherever you are!"

Larjan hears the answering roar without fully comprehending it. His _dovah_ go into a frenzy. _Kill it!_ Just seconds later, it's by sheer stroke of luck that a dragon flies overhead just as Alvor is tightening the straps on the side of Larjan's half-finished steel breastplate.

There are screams, but Larjan hears only the roaring in his ears. _Kill it kill itkillitkillit._ He does not waste time; he grabs the first weapon he can lay his hands on, which ends up being a pickaxe, and runs after it. Even if he somehow couldn't notice the enormous green-scaled beast in the air, he could simply run against the flow of Riverwood's panicked population and in the direction that chubby-fingered children are pointing with gaping mouths. It heads North and slightly to the East, and he sprints across the bridge in pursuit. Riverwood's panicked guards are left behind in the dust, still scrambling to their wits as a creature straight out of their nightmares roars in a language they can't understand.

_"Meyz tir, meyz tir, kolos alun hi los, Dovahkiin."_

Dragons are not the primary antagonists of Larjan's nightmares, however, and he almost has to laugh as its roars reach his ears. It's taunting him, thinks this is a game. Unfortunately for the dragon, Larjan might just have the same opinion. He's not scared of it. ~~Not after Elenwen, and~~ not after Sahloknir and Mirmulnir rise to add their rage to his.

_Killitkillitkillitkillit!_

It's the way of a dragon. The bloodlust drowning out all other thoughts and fears in him can't be helped.

Larjan chases the green-scaled dragon over the mountain, until his leather-clad feet drum not against packed dirt and frost-kissed grass but crunch through knee-high snow and ice. He doesn't feel the cold. There's a tower on top of the mountain, a tower he thinks he might have seen in the distance the first time he travelled from Riverwood to Whiterun, with a scowling Istha at his side.

Back then he might have stopped at the sight of the three grotesque bandit corpses the dragon leaves for him as a greeting, and retched. As it is now, he barely spares a second glance for the scorched flesh. One of the bandits lies apart from the others, not quite as badly burned, and upon his head is a helmet with one of the horns broken off. Larjan takes it and sets it upon his head without breaking pace, and then the ground is slopping underneath him again.

He finds the _dovah_ in the middle of a giant camp. One of the giants already lies crumpled off to the side, sporting a gaping hole in his abdomen where the dragon's teeth made their mark, but another is still standing, and by the looks of it, furious.

Larjan pauses for breath at the top of the small valley in which the giants made their camp, watching the _dov_ alternatively breathe fire and try to get its snapping jaws close enough to bite the giant man attacking it, all while avoiding the heavy club. He wonders at first why the dragon doesn't just take to the air and burn everything again, but then it turns and he sees the bashed shoulder, the ruin of scales and bone where the giant's club has crippled its right wing. How can he resist an opportunity like that?

"For Skyrim!" Larjan shouts, and dives in. The giant finally loses his footing and falls to one knee, and Larjan takes a flying leap off a boulder behind it and buries the pickaxe between his shoulderblades. The wound is shallower than he'd like, since he's using his right hand as his dominant hand, but it does its job with a satisfying crack as the giant's back breaks underneath. There is no time to celebrate the sweet taste of victory, however, because the dragon is still underfoot.

 _"Til hi los, joor. Sein nau pahrk, los hi ni?"_ It almost purrs, lowering its head as though showing submission, but the glint in his bright golden eyes suggests otherwise. Again with the taunts, calling him slow. Larjan isn't sure how he grasps the meaning of his enemy's words, but they infuriate him nonetheless.

_Kill it! Killitkillit!_

"Shut up!" Larjan screams, at all three dragons past and present.

Larjan wrenches the pickaxe out of the giant's back and wraps both hands around its handle. His right is dominant, the way General Tullius had been trying to teach him on those nights of practice, but his left provides the balance he needs. The pickaxe is familiar to him, and though when he came to Skyrim he thought he'd never pick one of the wretched things up again, the three years he spent mining in an Imperial prison are finally paying off.

 _Fus roh!_ the dragon Shouts, and Larjan finds himself tumbling heels over head backwards. The landing knocks the wind out of him and bruises his ribs, and he lies still for as long as he dares, gasping for breath. His shoulder stings where a sharp rock tore through the leather, but he can't afford to feel pain.

"Up, mortal," the dragon sneers in Common, prowling forward. "Let me look at the _Dovahkiin_ , the one that has my _zeymah_ cowering."

Larjan gets to one knee and glares at the creature limping towards him on two legs and one good wing. He lets it approach, lets it think he's weak. At the last moment, faced with razor-sharp teeth that still have bits of giant flesh stuck between them, he thrusts his weight up and forward. He buries the pickaxe in the dragon's open mouth, cutting off the answering Shout. This close, its shriek of pain is deafening.

And still it writhes desperately, nearly crushing Larjan against the rock at his back in its attempts to dislodge the pickaxe from its mouth. Larjan grabs the handle and yanks it out, burying it twice more in the dragon's skull. Finally the fire burning in those keen golden eyes sputters and dies, and its death throes still.

The dragon's body and the rock formation at his back leave him hardly any room to shimmy out and breathe. Larjan sits down a few paces away from the body and becomes aware of just how bruised and battered and exhausted he is. He turns tiredly as the dead _dovah's_ flesh ignites from inside and watch it go up in flames. The fire is cool to touch, though it tickles. He stares at the fire for a long time, long after the swirling blue tendrils depart the bared ribcage and stream into him, choking him momentarily before the newly conquered dragon finds his place beside Sahloknir and Mirmulnir.

His name is Hunuthnok, and with his death Larjan thinks he understands a little more about how to burn.

 

..............................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Hours later, two Wood Elves find him en route from a hunting trip. Larjan barely remembers the trip back, only that they each take one of his arms over their shorter shoulders and talk non-stop on the way back, and that at one point they pass Whiterun's Western watchtower and he thinks _'oh hey, I know that place._ ' He drags his feet stubbornly enough that the Wood Elf brothers stop and let him look at the ruins for a while, though they clearly think he's completely addled in the head.

The sight of Mirmulnir's bones, half-buried in snow and having become a perch for crows and carrion birds, draws a low snarl from the _dovah._

"Shut up," Larjan says aloud. "Shut up forever. You're driving me insane."

"Friend," the shorter Elf says in a tone half-amused, half affectionate. "You were insane long before Anoriath and I came upon you."

Then the other one, the one named Anoriath, hauls him up again and they continue along. There is a Khajiit caravan camped outside Whiterun's walls, and the sight of them makes Larjan's blood runs cold. _Drip drip drip._

_"This one is from Whiterun! Well, nearby Whiterun. Home is back in Elsweyr and here in Skyrim the caravan's only home is the road, but this one pretends Whiterun will let her in one day!"_

But the Wood Elf brothers fear for the injuries Hunuthnok left on him, and don't let him stop in front of the slant-eyed, curious gazes of the catmen. Whiterun's guards spot them a few paces later, and after several cries of alarm two of them run down from their posts and relieve Anoriath and his brother from their places carrying Larjan.

"We found this one half-dead next to some dragon bones," the older Elf explains.

"By the watchtower? When the weather was warmer we had pilgrims coming from all over to see the skeleton," a guard says.

"No, further," Anoriath says. "By Bleakwind Basin. He was the only living thing in an hour's walk radius. There were two dead giants too. From the looks of it this poor idiot took them on with nothing but a rusty pickaxe. Bastard must have been born under the Serpent.”

As the Wood Elves recount their story the other guard removes Larjan's blood-crusted helm and stares in wonder at the revealed face.

"...Dragonborn? Why, we had heard rumours you were captured months ago!"

"The Thane has returned! Say, Dragonborn, where's Lydia? She's your housecarl, isn't she?"

Larjan says nothing.  _Oh, I remember her,_ Sahloknir says with a self-satisfied purr. _I remember her well. Such a shame her death was so..._

Larjan closes his eyes, and falls into blackness.

 

........................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Sixteen year old Larjan finds his father in the woods, sitting bare-assed on a tree stump with a knife in one hand and a thin branch in the other.

“You said you wouldn't transform anymore,” Larjan accuses him, silver eyes flashing like the knife he tucks away into his belt when he finds his father human once again. His gaze is surprisingly infantile and gentle, eyebrows raised in faint surprise and innocent eyes open wide as he searches in his mind for an explanation to give to his most headstrong child.

“It... I didn't mean to. The Wolf... It was an accident.”

“An accident,” Larjan says, pronouncing every word slowly and deliberately. “Like in the village. Almost transforming in the market because some idiot started a brawl and threw a punch at you. An _accident_ is what made us have to move to the middle of nowhere on top of some mountain where we live in a tiny shack and never see anyone!”

His father looks appropriately shamed, but Larjan knows his anger will only stop the damned werewolf from running off for a few nights. The human feels sorry; he apologizes constantly and more earnest each time, but nothing will change as long as the Wolf remains.

“It was the Wolf,” Larjan's father pleads. “You know I can't control it...”

“Mama cries every time you go out,” Larjan continues relentlessly, his voice louder and clearer than the older man's anguished mumbles. “She hates it here too and the only reason she stays is because she loves you, and then you go and disappear for three nights and show up in our woods butt-naked and expecting forgiveness!”

“It's the Wolf, it makes everything go away and I can finally think again, it's like taking an ice-cold bath and all of a sudden you wake up and everything makes _sense_ -”

“You're supposed to be our father! Kjern is teaching the twins how to shoot a bow and arrow because you can't be bothered. Mama is pulling weeds alone out of that stupid garden she's trying to plant because she can't find any damn alchemic plants on this rock to make her potions, and Simmile and I are the only ones trying to feed everyone!”

“Son,” Larjan's father says, his voice lower and sterner as though he's finally trying to fill the role that's been getting emptier and emptier the more wolf-like the passing years make him.

“I'm not your son!” Larjan snarls, and in his anger he doesn't realize his hand is already resting on the silver dagger at his hip. Larjan's father does, however, and leaps backwards as his eyes turn from the family's renowned silver-blue to a deep ochre colour. Teeth lengthen into points and fingertips curl inwards as bones realign and shift to form the beginnings of claws. Yet the rest of him remains human, remains undecided.

Father and son watch each other in the clearing, one gaze hateful and accusing, the other defensive and wary.

“Go on,” Larjan says eventually, gesturing vaguely with the tip of the dagger. “I know you want to. Give in to your damned _Wolf_ , and follow it to Oblivion for all I care.”

The amber eyes continue to watch him as the rest of the man Larjan once knew grows dark brown fur and drops to all fours, and keeps growing in height and bulk. The dark-furred wolf that crouches in front of him scarcely a minute later whines quietly as it backs away slowly.

“Shut up,” Larjan snaps. “Go on and run. You and your one-man pack. How does it feel, _papa_?”

The trees swallow up the dark silhouette in the space between one blink and the next. Larjan doesn't move for a while, just stares at the now-abandoned tree stump. The abandoned whittling knife still rests on it when he turns his back and sets off in the opposite direction than the vagabond werewolf.

 

.........................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

The Companions take him in. Larjan is surprised, but too exhausted to make any comment on the familiarity of the bunk that the guards ease him onto.

He spends the next two days in and out of sleep. Sometimes the priestess is there, the one that smells like fertile soil and warm winds, and sometimes it is Ria instead, or Aela, or one of the twins – Larjan can't tell them apart with his eyes so blurry and his head still feeling like it hit a brick wall at top speed. It's a struggle to stay awake long enough to hold a conversation or swallow a few mouthfuls of honeyed water, but he tries all the same. It's the only way to appease the persistent _dovah_ in his head.

It's mostly thanks to Danica that he recovers so quickly. He calls her Silana several times in his deliriousness, but she takes her resemblance to the kind priestess in Solitude in stride. Larjan wishes he could thank these priestesses who nurse him back to health knowing full well that he'll charge back into danger and be back for more, but he doesn't have the words.

Instead, he wanders, the way he did those two weeks in Solitude. However, Whiterun is unexpectedly far more hostile than the Legion-controlled capital. The civilians look on him with pity, but the majority of the guards turn away with disappointment once news of his reappearance begins to spread. Lydia was young, but well known in the barracks as a strong and capable warrior. Larjan's return without her at his side is taken as a personal insult.

Larjan doesn't know how to tell them he's just as furious and helpless and grieving as they are.

After someone particularly vengeful spits at his feet, Larjan hides away from Whiterun. It takes both Aela and Farkas to coax him outside when they hold a funeral for Lydia – a proper funeral, not the muddy riverbed her vulture-picked bones will have forever. There's no body to burn, even though Vilkas went out with Athis and Ria the day before to try to find the spot where the ~~Thalmor~~ ambushed them, so instead Larjan watches as Irileth, representing Jarl Balgruuf, solemnly places a shield bearing Whiterun's horse silhouette into the flames of the Skyforge, and an iron helmet overtop. Larjan stares at the curving horns at each side and remembers Lydia's complaints when Istha first made her put a helmet on at Valtheim Towers, after a lucky bandit nearly took her head off.

After that, he feels a little better. Not very much. ~~But a little.~~

_Still you cling to these primitive human ways? A world with dov is a world ruled by dov, and we have only one law. You kill, or you are killed. She was killed. Move on already, or you will follow suit._

“Stop!” Larjan yells suddenly. “Just shut up! I never asked for any of this...”

He is dimly aware of eyes on him as he sinks to his knees and half-sobs, but he doesn't care. He just wants it to stop, wants to be stronger so he can make the _dovah_ in his head see him as their equal at the very least. He remembers the grudging pride Sahloknir showed him in the first few moments they were acquainted in his head, when the newly-conquered dragon had admitted that Larjan had bested him with fair strength. He wants that again, and wants Mirmulnir to bow his head again, and wants Hunuthnok to stop oozing disappointment in the back of his mind.

He killed, and they were killed. By all accounts he proved himself the dominant _dovah_ , and should now be their master.

~~But then why does it feel like they're the ones ruling his mind?~~

A heavy but gentle hand rests on Larjan's bowed shoulder. He flinches as the contact brushes the wool of his tunic against the brand on his back that will never heal, but he stands nonetheless and lets himself lean into Farkas' warm side as the Companions slowly gather around like a human ~~/wolf~~ shield between the broken Dragonborn and the silently accusing eyes of Whiterun.

 _Look at you, you need an entire little army to protect you from a few measly humans who have never in their lives faced death in the face_ , Sahloknir sneers.

“Stop,” Larjan mumbles.

“Do you want to spar? Get your mind off of things?” Farkas asks as they reach the training yard and turn into the safety of Jorrvaskr's shadow. Bless the werewolf's kind heart, but the gesture is empty and meaningless to Larjan. He silently raises his left hand, wiggles the remaining knuckles at Farkas like a mocking puppet show. Everything is a joke and his entire, battered body and mind is the punchline.

Larjan has to give the man some credit, though. He takes Larjan's display of amputation in stride, declares he'll tie one hand behind his back in the interest of equality, and before long there are other voices chiming in -

“-say, Larjan, have you tried a mace?” Ria suggests, brown eyes blinking hopefully. “I don't know much about maces, but they don't seem like they need the same precision as swords. Just put the spiky end in the right general direction!”

“Ria, have you learned nothing from me?” Vilkas complains, glaring at the young woman he's been trying to train for ages. “Larjan, instead of going directly into a sparring match I'd spend a few weeks building up dexterity in the fingers you still have. Ever knitted before? I can teach you.”

“Ignore everyone and Shout at any enemy stupid enough to come your way,” Skjor murmurs in his ear as he passes.

It's overwhelming – it's too much, but somehow Farkas of all people notices and determinedly shoos everyone away. It's hard not to listen when a bulky, glowering Nord like Farkas demands you take a walk elsewhere. If only Farkas could talk to Sahloknir and Mirmulnir as well.

_I heard that._

In the end, only Larjan and Farkas remain in the training yard, as well as their two quiet spectators. Aela, who perches on the ledge coming off of the Skyforge to watch, and Athis, who narrows his red eyes at every awkward movement Larjan tries to make with a wooden one-handed sword.

And somehow, these three people quietly and encouragingly succeed where the famous General Tullius failed. _Family_ , Larjan thinks.

 _Arrow fodder_ , Sahloknir retorts. And another part of him, fainter and more child-like, awakens in a deeper part of his mind, a part he thought he killed four years ago when he killed his first man, his own father. _Pack._

Larjan tries not to think about ~~the third part of himself.~~

 

...............................................................................................................................................................................................

 

When he isn't sitting with a slowly-deteriorating Kodlak Whitemane, or adding sums of gold and supplies and scheduling contracts for the Companions, Vilkas reads in a secluded corner of the main hall. Larjan hesitates to approach him at first, because the scowling face is always a little softer, a little more serene when it has a leather-bound tome in front of it.

It's past midnight and they are alone in the main hall. Larjan is still up because he avoids sleep so long as Elenwen still haunts his nightmares, and Vilkas is up... Vilkas is up because the entire Circle is comprised of insomniacs. Larjan mostly drowns himself in ale, and stares into the fire, and hates himself. Until eventually, the snide insults inside his mind finally drive him to action.

“Can you teach me?” Larjan asks one night, when the _dovah_ just won't shut up and he needs a distraction more than he needs a drink.

Vilkas seems surprised as he closes the book on one careful finger and looks up.

“To knit? You seem to be doing well enough with the swor-”

“To read,” Larjan interrupts. The more brooding of the two twins scruntinizes him quietly. “I was a hunter's son, and then a sellsword,” he tries to explain when Vilkas still doesn't answer. “There was never enough time.”

“There is always time,” Vilkas says eventually. He sighs. “There are scrolls on the desk in my room, whelp. Fetch them, and then a good piece of charcoal from the fireplace. A part that isn't currently burning!”

 _What's wrong with burning?_ Mirmulnir sulks.

“Harder to write with,” Larjan mutters as he trots down the stairs to the living quarters beneath the mead hall. Aela gives him a strange look in passing as she comes up the stairs at the same time, but she has her quiver strapped to her back and her bow out and she's clearly more set on venturing outside of Whiterun's walls than babysitting him. “Now shut up. For gods' sake, shut up shut up _shut up_!”

 

...........................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Larjan wins his first swordmatch post-amputation against Njada Stone-Arm. His spirits soar, knowing she'd never be the kind of person to let him win. He's so happy he nearly kisses her, but he'll settle for the small, grudging smile she gives him when he finally manages to disarm her after four days of constant drilling.

“That's it,” Athis cries aloud, the gray skin at the corners of his eyes and mouth crinkled with approval. “Now with iron!”

 _This is the weakling who defeated me? A hatchling who celebrates at a victory fought with wood?_ Hunuthnok growls by his ear. _Pathetic._

Larjan's smile fades. He reaches for an iron sword hanging on the stands at the edge of training yard, and turns the worn leather grip in his hands. He swings it in the air a few times experimentally with his mangled left hand, imagines that the resistance in the air is replaced with tough flesh and deflective scales. Then he settles into a defensive stance, facing the small group sitting on the sides of the sparring area and silently challenging them.

Wary glances are exchanged between the Companion spectators , but no one comments on the dangerous reflection of fire in his silvery eyes.

“He needs something to focus on,” Aela murmurs to Skjor later, in the privacy of their room as he presses a kiss to the curve of her tanned shoulder.

“A pack,” Skjor grunts.

“No,” Aela says absently, focused on the warmth of his breath on her scarred and sun-drenched skin. “Not yet.”

“If you say so. I trust your judgement on these things better than my own.”

 

.............................................................................................................................................................................................

 

"Hello," Larjan begins uncertainly. "My... my name is Larjan."

"Greetings, Larjan," says the cross-legged Khajiit seated in front of him. She gestures with a dark-furred hand - _paw? hand?_ \- for him to sit, and he does so with an awkward wince of pain. He hasn't yet worked out the soreness in his muscles, both from the battle with Hunuthnok and the relentless practice Athis and Farkas have put him through. "This one welcomes you to the humble caravan, and thanks you for the unexpected company. So many refuse to talk to us. They call us thieves and smugglers. I am glad to see that you are not such a one."

"I don't think that of you at all," Larjan stammers, and he hopes the Khajiit merchant can hear the sincerity in his voice though he is slightly unsettled by the way her eyes almost seem to glow against the dark backdrop of her fur. "I met a Khajiit that convinced me otherwise, actually. We were friends for a while."

"Oh?" the catwoman says, her curiosity piqued.

"Yes. She said she travelled with a caravan that sometimes stopped at Whiterun," Larjan says. He pauses because there is suddenly a flash of anger in the merchant's eyes. "Her name was J'aesire," he continues a voice far quieter and lower. The two nearby Khajiit guards pause in the middle of tanning leather and regard him with guarded eyes and nervously-twitching tails.

"Get out," the merchant says suddenly, her face twisted with anguish. "Get out of Ahkari's sight."

Larjan doesn't move, frozen as he is by the suddenness of her fury. He wants to explain himself -

"She told me that you're not allowed within the city walls, but that she always pretended Whiterun was her home away from Elsweyr, and that-"

Ahkari's arm darts out lightning quick, and Larjan doesn't realize she's cut him with her claws until he feels the sting on his face and presses his fingers to find blood welling up on his cheekbones.

_Bitch! Make her pay the blood price!_

One of the watching Khajiit guards yells out in alarm, and when he lunges for Larjan the Nord thinks that he will be attacked yet again. Instead the burly catman drags Larjan a safe distance away from the now-sobbing Ahkari and plants him on the ground.

"This one apologies for his caravan," the catman whispers as he kneels to Larjan's height, his whiskers quivering with pain. Larjan looks at him, hand pressed against his bleeding face, and cannot understand.

"J'aesire was Ahkari's apprentice and sister-cub," the Khajiit explains. "Ahkari does not know how to go home to Elsweyr and tell her sister that our Altmer allies took her kitten away, and so Ahkari weeps everyday."

"I'm sorry. She died beside me," Larjan says, and the _drip drip drip_ of memory superimposes the image of the Khajiit warrior kneeled in front of him so he sees at once the plains in front of Whiterun ~~and the cell underneath the Thalmor Embassy.~~ "I told her stories, but I couldn't save her."

"It was this one's job to save her," the catman whispers. "This Khajiit protects the others. J'aesire.... J'aesire was to be his mate in a few more summers, when she grew old enough."

"I'm sorry," Larjan repeats, like apologizing enough will evaporate the guilt he drowns in.

"As is the whole caravan. And yet, these ones thank you for bringing news of our J'aesire. If you ever need the skills of a Khajiit warrior by your side... I would be honoured to travel with you."

"Thank you," Larjan says. "But I've seen too many people die because they met me."

"As you wish," the Khajiit responds, bowing his head and standing up. "If you change your mind another day, you may call upon Kharjo. Until then, his place is with his caravan."

Larjan takes the furry hand offered to him and stands as well. Kharjo blinks sad eyes at him once more and turns his back, returning to the travelling camp where two other Khajiit woman struggle to comfort the wailing Ahkari. Larjan watches for a while, feeling his pain as acutely as he would if ~~Elenwen~~ herself wrote it into his skin with her tiny poisoned knives.

Then he turns, and returns to Jorrvaskr with a heart no lighter than it was when he left.

 

..........................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Larjan sits with Aela that night, cushioned with an absurd amount of pillows and blankets. He never would have taken her for a reader, but then, Larjan himself didn't seem like the kind of person to take to Vilkas' lessons so quickly either. The fire in the main hall is getting lower, licking at the remaining charred logs with half-hearted flames. But the warmth remains, and neither of them moves to add more wood.

Reading is hard, but not as hard as writing. Vilkas has Larjan printing out so many shaky, lopsided letters and simple words that Larjan sees their smudged charcoal edges in his dreams – ~~on the wall above his manacles, all over Elenwen's face, charcoal everywhere as Hunuthnok goes up in flames~~ – but no, he doesn't think of that.

Instead Larjan stares at the word he's been trying to sound out in his head for the past ten minutes. For all of Vilkas' efforts to match lines and shapes to the sounds of the Nord language, Larjan is still stumped by longer words.

“Aela,” he asks finally, at a loss. “What's 'dec-is-i-on'?”

“Decision,” she supplies helpfully, glancing up from her own book. It's some kind of guide to archery. He spots diagrams of different arrowheads from various cultures and times as she lets the book drop in her grip when she adjusts her weight in the chair.

“Thanks,” he says, and returns to his own tale.

“Aela,” he asks again.

“Yes, Larjan?” she responds, her voice humouring. He likes that she doesn't call him Dragonborn – actually, hardly any of the Companions do. It feels so good, finally, to be more than a duty or a title.

 _Is that what we are to you?_ Mirmulnir comments snidely. _I'm hurt._

 _As am I_ , Sahloknir adds.

“The Circle never sleeps,” Larjan says, ignoring the argument going on behind his temples. He sees her stiffen, and realizes he hasn't discussed the werewolf epidemic in Whiterun with Farkas or anyone since his return. She must not have known that he's in on the secret. “It's all right,” he adds quickly. “I won't tell anyone about... My father was one too.”

“Really?” she asks, her tone vaguely curious but her eyes hard and guarded.

“Yeah,” Larjan says. “He was always leaving in the middle of the night and running around outside. When I was little he told us there were monsters in the woods around our village and he had to go play with them so they wouldn't come during the day. My older siblings knew – Kjern was the one who went out to bring him clothes when he transformed back. And Simmile helped my mother dress the cuts he always came back with. The twins and I would try to stay up, but we never managed.”

“It's dangerous to live with a werewolf,” Aela says casually.

“Yeah,” Larjan says. “He killed my brother and the twins four years ago while transformed. And then he tried to attack my mother and sister, and she didn't raise a hand to defend herself. Just told him the entire time that she loved him and she knew he was there and that he didn't want to do this.”

There is pain in Aela's eyes, and Larjan closes his mouth suddenly, regretting the old wounds he's opened.

“He must have been heartbroken when he woke up,” Aela murmurs, her eyes turned down and away, hidden in shadow.

“He didn't,” Larjan responds in a whisper. “I killed him then to save my mother. I was eighteen.”

“My mother was a lycanthrope too. Every woman in my family for generations has been... I never witnessed my mother lose control, but I saw the aftermath a few times. That was bad enough.”

“Why is the Circle different?” Larjan asks. “Why aren't you all bloodthirsty monsters?”

_Nothing wrong with -_

“Because we're a pack,” Aela answers without missing a beat. Larjan does not respond for a long time. He looks at the dying fire, and the empty staircase leading to the rooms where the rest of the Companions sleep dreamlessly. And then he looks back at his book, at 'dec-is-i-on'. Decision. He stares at that word for a long time, sounding it out silently, rolling it on his tongue and letting it press against the back of his teeth.

“Aela,” Larjan says for the third time. “I want to join the Circle.”

“You're not ready,” she responds, almost vicious with the speed with which she denies him. “You don't know what you're asking for-”

“I know exactly what I'm asking for and you know it.”

“You're unstable, Larjan, this can only end-” Aela suddenly breaks off though she looks like she was about to say something else. Larjan watches, eyebrows furrowed together in confusion, as she tilts her head as though listening to something underneath their feet. “Just Kodlak,” she says finally, sounding tired and defeated. “He's coughing again.”

“Again?” Larjan asks, and guiltily thinks of all the healing potions wasted on him when they would have better been bestowed on the respected and elderly Harbinger.

The silence stretches on and on. _Unstable. She called us unstable. You hear that, Dovahkiin?_

“Very well,” Aela says with a troubled sigh. “You may not be ready, but the pack is. It's weakening. We need new blood.” She fixes her steely gaze on Larjan. “You better not disappoint, whelp.”

Inside Larjan's skull, the dovah prowl, violent and agitated.

 _There isn't room for one more_ , Mirmulnir insists.

 _Maybe I should kick one of you out instead_ , Larjan thinks viciously. Aela is gazing off into the distance, her face for once void of paint and vulnerable.

 

..................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Masser hangs heavily above Whiterun's silhouette, like a woman's pregnant belly so swollen that it needs two soft hands on either side to help alleviate the weight. Secunda lurks nearby, dominated by its larger sibling.

Below it, two reeling and rosy-cheeked men stumble out of The Bannered Mare and into the cobbled street, roaring with laughter. Hulda stands in the lit doorway, lecturing them on the merits of public sobriety as they struggle to maintain their balance on the uneven stones moistened by a faint layer of snow, but everyone knows she is only half serious. The drunker they get, the more gold she gets.

They are not yet home when an unearthly howl splits the night air. The two men are too drunk to care, but Hulda looks up nervously, her hand reaching for the open doors.

"I wish they'd muzzle those dogs," she murmurs to herself as she closes them firmly behind her. "The howling coming from Jorrvaskr has gotten out of hand again."

"Ah, just a stray," one of the drunkards rumbles, and his companion hides his face in his elbow bashfully and chuckles as though the stray is the most humorous thing he's discussed all night.

Moments later, the heavy stone entrance to the Underforge is shoved open by the well-placed weight of a monstrous shoulder. A white-blond wolf bounds out of the opening, favouring his right side. A bright, pink tongue lolls out from between the powerful jaws, tasting air as though for the first time. Behind him, another howl echoes from the darkness of the Underforge, and a russet-coloured wolf leaps in front of the pale one.

She is smaller, but more accustomed to this strange body, and unafraid as she pulls back her lips and snarls a warning. The pale wolf considers her with narrowed, unrecognizing eyes. He has the advantage of height and weight, but he still feels like a cub tripping over his paws for the first time, and the muscles in this new body still ripple unsettlingly underneath his fur, unsure if they knit together to form man or wolf or wolf-man. The she-wolf barks, her message causing the pale wolf's tail to hide between his back legs and his ears to flatten.

She wants him to go back to the forge-cave, back to the stiffling darkness. The she-wolf is not his Alpha, but to her he is still merely a cub in the pack. By all accounts he should listen.

But the scent of meat hangs on the air, and the Wolf does not want to listen. There is land to travel and blood to spill and _bunnies_ to slaughter. The Wolf has no love for the cave. The pale wolf whines anxiously, wanting his superior to understand. She merely growls, a threat echoed from deep within her throat. The Wolf makes the decision for him.

He won't challenge the she-wolf's claim to dominance tonight, but neither will he respect it.

The pale wolf darts to the side, and he runs past her, past the ship-building and the dying tree. Everything is so sharp, and drenched in scent, and loud! He can hear prey moving inside the wood-caves rising out of the ground on every side, can hear the pads of his paws drum against the stone, can hear breathing up ahead where two men lurch to the side of the street.

But most of all, he can hear silence.

_“It's the Wolf, it makes everything go away and I can finally think again, it's like taking an ice-cold bath and all of a sudden you wake up and everything makes sense-”_

There is no one in his head. No one but him - ~~and the Wolf.~~

A blood-curdling scream shatters the peace, and just moments later, an anguished howl. Above, Masser and Secunda continue in their orbit, never once slowing or stopping.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second-last Larjan chapter of part 1!
> 
> Sooooo. In all honesty, did you guys see his addition to the Circle coming? Was it rushed/predictable? Or if his reasons for wanting to become something that he obviously still has mixed feelings about seemed unclear, please tell me. This is the stuff that was the hardest to write in this chapter.
> 
> The very first line I wrote was "His name is Hunuthnok, and with his death Larjan thinks he understands a little more about how to burn" and from there I just kind of went with it. Well, adios! Short note today. I think I talk too much, I'm trying to cut back.


	26. I - Where the End Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter from Istha's point of view!
> 
> Heartfelt apologies for the tardiness can be found in the end notes.

"We'll never get an army over the mountains," Galmar Stone-Fist growls, his hand clenching and unclenching into a tight fist on the edge of the map. Istha has been in the Palace of Kings for two days now, and Ulfric Stormcloak's right hand man remains as hostile to her as ever. Granted, she has spent her time here arguing with him continuously, but only because nothing gets through the man's godsdamn skull. That, or the ever-present bear pelt is muffling his ears, because he hears nothing but what he wants to hear.

"You said you have a camp near Solitude," Istha says, pronouncing each syllable carefully as though she is arguing with a child. Her patience is wearing thin. These human men are half her age. She was learning to shoot a bow when they were suckling, and they still talk down to her.

"Dragonborn, Galmar," Ulfric cautions, speaking up for the first time in several minutes. He is partially shadowed in the confines of the war room, eyes cast into darkness as he stares with furrowed eyebrows at the map occupying the table between them. "We must keep our heads. The Imperials are already trying to cut them off and there is no sense in making their job easier."

"Don't joke about Helgen," Istha mutters, but she leans away from Galmar's fuming, cherry-red face nonetheless.

"We don't have enough men in the Haafingar camp to mount a full-fledged assault on Northwatch," Galmar insists.

"Then get more!" Istha says, throwing her hands up in desperation. "Ulfric, you said so yourself-"

"Address your Jarl with respect!" Galmar interrupts, utterly scandalized by Istha's usual refusal to acknowledge authority.

"You'll do well to remember that he's not my Jarl," Istha snarls. "Ulfric, please!"

"Our hands are tied, Dragonborn," Ulfric Stormcloak says sadly. "Without Jarl Balgruuf allowing us safe passage through his hold, it is almost impossible to get enough men and supplies to the Haafingar camp to stage a frontal attack. Our best chance is a small extraction team-"

"Then why are we sitting here talking about armies and supplies? Give me five of your best-" Istha cries.

"Not even a Dragonborn can waltz into a Thalmor keep without scouts and a detailed plan," Ulfric says, his eyes narrowing dangerously at Istha. Not for the first time, she feels less of an ally and more of a hostage. "They have Larjan Silvereyes already, I will not hand you to the Legion on a silver platter. You will stay here."

Istha does not remember how to breathe for a moment, so overwhelmed by anger and the building pressure behind her temples of howdarethey and it takes her a moment to swallow back the unwanted fire in her throat and rein in her _dovahs_ ' indignation.

"No," she says quietly. "I can't sit here while I know the Thalmor are... Not to Larjan. Not him. Larjan is..." She trails off, searching for the word. There is a tense pause.

"A lover?" Ulfric asks, quietly supplying his thoughts. Galmar looks like he's about to pass out from the sheer indecency of a Dunmer wretch bewitching an honourable Nord man, and Istha half-laughs breathlessly at the absurdity.

"...No," she says, and then with more certainty: "No. But he's Dragonborn, and that makes him the only other person who knows what it feels like to have your head invaded by things that should, by all accounts, have been dead centuries ago."

_Is he the only other one?_

Istha falters at the quiet whisper from Veniizahkrin, who usually remains silent. Her gaze turns South towards the Throat of the World, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. She catches herself after a moment and presses her lips together thinly. Istha thinks of the golden threads she saw while meditating under Paarthurnax's watchful gaze in the Time-Wound, and of the tangles that would throw her out of balance if she looked too closely.

And suddenly, she has a terrible, lurching feeling in her gut that she is wrong - she and Larjan may not be the only ones with dragonblood in their veins.

"Oh," she says aloud, barely audible.

"Dragonborn," says Ulfric Stormcloak, pulling her out of her thoughts. She'll worry about the Time-Wound and the possibility of other _Dovahkiin_ later. "We've lost many honourable men and women to the Thalmor. Larjan is Dragonborn, yes, but even his importance does not make it acceptable for us to rush into unknown and dangerous territory without the necessary preparations. You may be older than us, but you have not lived through a war, and I will not let you throw away lives on a rescue attempt doomed to fail. Galmar knows what he speaks of. Trust us, and Larjan Silvereyes will be freed."

Istha simply stares at the cold stone wall of the War Room. Her mind hears the discussion continue onwards - Ulfric's warning, Galmar's insistence on scouting reports and the dwindling supplies reaching various camps in the West.

She cannot sit idly while they discuss politics and the limits of geography and Larjan rots in a Thalmor dungeon. Her mind spins listlessly around the pack hidden under her bed in the room she has been given in the palace. She and Larjan have been sitting in the dark long enough. She will rescue him, and then they will go to Aftland, and find out exactly why their fates have been tangled gold threads from the start. There is a secret hidden in the Elder Scroll, a secret that makes the dragons in her restless and... fearful.

First she needs Larjan. If the Stormcloaks will not help bring thunder and lightning on the heads of the Altmer who have taken her partner away, she will march herself. But for that, she will need a jailbreaker.

Istha stands up abruptly and pushes her chair away.

"Sit down, Dragonborn."

She leaves instead.

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, hero and traitor, bows his head tiredly and takes off the circlet on his head. At his side, Galmar Stone-Fist continues to glare after the departing Dunmer woman.

"When are you going to tell her he freed himself two weeks ago?" Galmar asks eventually.

"When I'm sure she won't go barrelling off after him," Ulfric snaps, rubbing at his temples and glaring at the little scarlet flag that marks Solitude on the map before them. "We haven't given her enough reason to come back yet."

"The Elf is a wild card, Ulfric. You can't risk her running off and falling into the Legion's ranks. Nothing as unpredictable as that... woman... can be relied upon in war. The best thing to do would be to lock her up where she can't do any damage, intentional or not."

"No one's getting locked up," Ulfric says sternly. There are still scars underneath his fine robes, scars that no amount of time and power will heal. The thought of locking up someone with as much fire in their heart as his younger self leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Forgive me, my Jarl."

The two men are quiet, even as somewhere else in the castle a kitchen boy drops a tray of silverware and is promptly yelled at for the resulting clatter, and above their heads Wuunferth the Unliving paces restlessly, turning the pages of a tome so quickly the edges leave thin cuts on his fingers, and outside in the training yard young men and women fight with steel in their hands and naive hope for glory in their eyes. The world is in frenzied motion, yet the War Room in the palace's heart feels suspended in time. They are hanging on a precipice just before the inevitable drop into an ocean below, and Ulfric feels a pressure on his chest like he should take a deep breath while he still can.

"You are getting desperate, Ulfric," Galmar accuses.

Ulfric nods, and adds "I know," absently, like an afterthought.

"Whiterun is more important to the cause than two indecisive creatures come out of legends," Galmar says. "Symbols they may be, but neither of them is trained to fight alongside others, much less lead armies and sway politics the way you wish they would. The Elf hates us, you can tell, and the Nord will be damaged-"

Galmar breaks off as Ulfric flinches. Neither man stirs for another moment.

"Tell me about Whiterun."

"Balgruuf won't give us a straight answer," Galmar growls.

"He's a true Nord. He'll come around," Ulfric says absently.

"Don't be so sure of that," Galmar warns. "We've intercepted couriers from Solitude. The Empire's putting a great deal of pressure on Whiterun."

Ulfric says nothing, but stands and reaches for a stash of ale. He passes one bottle to Galmar, and keeps another for himself. The bear-hooded man grudgingly accepts it and takes a long swig while he waits for his Jarl to come to a decision.

"How long are you going to wait?" he presses again. Still Ulfric says nothing, leaning on the doorway to the War Room and looking out into the hall, at all the men and women present who would give him their lives. He shakes his head wearily. This war is killing Skyrim, and by extension, himself. He will have to end it sooner or later, or risk conquering a barren land of graveyards and orphans.

 

......................................................................................................................................................................

 

Istha slips out of Windhelm on the pretence of a short hunting trip to calm her nerves. She thinks at first that her act is watertight, but half an hour into the woods South of the city she hears twigs snapping and quiet curses. She slips her bow off her shoulder and momentarily rests a calming hand on Betso's tossing neck, urging him to relax. The snapping grows louder, and she readies an arrow in the direction her pursuer is coming from. Moments later a broad-shouldered Nord man with stringy blond hair emerges from the underbrush leading a doe-eyed mare and gives her a half-hearted glare.

"You know there's a path five minutes away? Why would you insist on dragging your horse through the thickest part of the damned woods?"

"Ralof," Istha says instead, relaxing the taut string on her bow but not putting the arrow back in her quiver. Betso snorts at the newcomer and tugs at his reins, apparently curious about the strange mare. Istha holds him firm. "I remember you. So you left Riverwood after all."

"And got myself into less trouble than you seem to have. There are rumours in the barracks that you're Dragonborn. You and the man who was with us," he says, nonchalantly brushing snow and dried twigs out of the blue tunic overtop his cuirass.

"I'm not going to Shout for you," Istha says, tiredly anticipating the inevitable question she's gotten from dozens of soldiers and guards in the last few days at Windhelm.

"I'm not going to ask."

"Then why did you follow me?" Istha asks. She wants to be off.

"Because I was sent to summon you to a meeting with the Jarl, only to find your room completely empty, and your stable fees paid to the last septim. Those aren't normally preparations made by someone going on a simple hunting trip."

He's right, and it makes Istha grit her teeth. She'd hoped her weak excuse would give her a few hours head start, but with this observant fool on her tail...

"You're right. I'm doing something." She swings Betso's head around and nudges his sides with her feet, leaving Ralof with the inciting view of his swaying equine backside. To her displeasure, the Stormcloak runs up alongside Betso and blocks their way, making her poor stallion rear up unexpectedly.

"Idiot!" Istha cries, clinging to Betso.

"What are you doing, exactly?" Ralof questions, apparently unperturbed by the fact that he nearly gained a horseshoe to the face. Istha sighs.

"More than your beloved Jarl is," she mutters.

"You're going in the wrong direction if you're planning to attack the Thalmor," he notes.

"Ulfric won't give me soldiers, so I'm making my own army, and I'm starting in Riften," she says. Ralof scratches at the back of his head nervously.

"About that..." he says, and she looks at him sharply. He swings his blond head from the snow-covered ground to her gray face and back, mouth opening and closing. Eventually he clenches his jaw and seems to make up his mind. "I'll join you. I'll be your first recruit."

Before she can refuse, he draws the two-handed warhammer on his back with a metallic scrape. Both Istha and her mount shy away from the sudden gesture, but instead of attacking he just kneels in the snow and bows his head as he presents the heavy weapon. Istha tangles her fingers in Betso's mane and regards the Stormcloak man nervously. Several uncomfortable moments pass, and his arms begin to shake with the weight and still he remains in place.

On one hand, she doesn't think he'd have a high opinion of the Thieves Guild. On the other hand, she needs more muscle at her side. She makes up her mind. If he turns out to be a bad choice, she can always slit his throat and leave him in a gorge. Disappearances in Skyrim rarely go questioned.

"Ralof?" she asks uncertainly. "Literally giving me your weapon rather defeats the purpose of pledging it."

"You're supposed to dismount and use it to tap me and accept my service," he explains.

"Says who?"

"Nord customs."

"I'm not a Nord," Istha scoffs.

"I am. Just do it," Ralof insists. With a loud sigh, Istha swings her leg over Betso's side and slips off his back. She takes Ralof's outstretched warhammer with some reluctance, barely able to lift it with two thin arms, and lays the head on each of his shoulders. This seems to be enough for him, because he stands and takes the weapon back with a crooked smile.

"And now we can continue," he says, returning to the mare that waits diligently for him exactly where he left her.

"Very well," Istha responds, and sets off without looking back to see if he follows. Ralof turns out to be good company, especially when they run straight into a pack of bandits a few hours later. He twists his mouth in displeasure at the fire runes that Istha plants in front of their charging enemies, but does not complain about the use of magic, so she lets him swing at whatever remains after her flames. She's never seen anyone swordfight on horseback before, and wonders where he learned, and how his seemingly shy mare takes it so calmly. It takes them the better part of four days to reach Riften, a journey that is done primarily in respectful silence. Istha thinks about Larjan, mostly, though she tells herself she shouldn't think about what the Thalmor surely must be doing to him. She wonders what he'll be like after she frees him; if he'll recognize her, if his injuries are the kind one can recover from.

She and Ralof have only one exchange that could be considered a conversation - at the end of the third day when they reach Shor's Stone. The small mining village lacks an inn, but the guards relinquish two bunks in their barracks for the weary travellers. Ralof is close enough that Istha could reach out and touch his bunk if she so desired. He reminds her a bit of Larjan, but not enough, so she doesn't.

"Why did you come with me?" Istha asks quietly as the guards around them prepare for bed.

"Skyrim is my home," Ralof answers readily. "I will do anything for her. And as long as you seem to be the Stormcloak's best hope, I will fight at your side."

"Do you really think I am the Stormcloak's best hope?" Istha wonders. "I don't want to be part of your war. I'm not the champion you're looking for."

Ralof laughs at that. Bitterly.

"I'll be honest, Elf. We're losing. The Legion's losing too, but we're losing more with every new wave of Thalmor sent up from the damned Isles. At this point, any champion is better than no champion," he says. He is quiet for a moment. Then, "Ever wonder if maybe we should call a truce with the Imperials, join forces for a while, and take care of some dragons?"

Istha thinks of Larjan, captured by the Legion's allies, beaten and tortured the way she knows he must be simply because that is the only form of conversation the Thalmor know.

"No," she says, almost shocked by the viciousness in her voice. "No. The last time Tamriel saw a truce, your Jarl marched into Solitude and murdered a king."

"Fair point," Ralof says, and they are silent once again.

The sight of Riften languishing on Lake Honrich's shores greets them the next evening, and Istha quickens her pace as it grows larger with their approach. Another time she might smile at the familiar scent of fish and Ralof's wrinkled nose, or at the dragonflies flitting lazily over the water, but as they dismount and pay Hofgrir to stable their horses. Mercer Frey would have her head if she reveals the graveyard entrance to the Cistern to a non-member, so she leads an increasingly reluctant Ralof to the canals and into the Ratways.

There are a few new residents in the dank tunnels, and while most can be persuaded to keep their distance at the gleam of Istha's daggers or the threat of Ralof's warhammer coming down on their skulls, one or two of them are too far gone in throes of insanity or Skooma or both, and these ones Istha disposes of without another thought. She sees Ralof's displeasure clearly in the way his shoulders hunch forward, and gives him a glare as they continue.

"Still love Skyrim after you've seen its dirty secrets?" she asks. He nods briskly, and so she says nothing until they find the corpse.

"That's..." Ralof stammers. "That's Thalmor armour."

"So it is," Istha says distractedly, crouching and poking the tip of her dagger at the golden metal that hasn't quite succeeded in stopping the bugs from getting to the decomposing Altmer flesh underneath. The smell is unbearable, but everything in the Ratway smells, so the Thalmor soldier could have been dead anywhere from two days to a week. The sight makes her stomach roll with worry like waves on an open sea. "Let's go."

There are no other traces of life until they reach the last room.

"Ready?" Istha asks, and when Ralof nods, she opens the door to the Ragged Flagon. "All right. Then keep quiet, don't touch anything or anybody, and for Azura's sake don't go in the water, you'll smell for days."

"What is this pla-"

"Quiet," Istha snaps, and he falls into a reluctant silence once more. She walks in the very middle of the curved path leading to the bar that conceals the Cistern - no shadows for her this time. Istha isn't here as a thief. She's here as a Dragonborn.

Vex notices her first, and after a split second, so do the others.

"Lass," Brynjolf says by way of greeting, half-standing in his surprise. Istha tries to add up the days and weeks in her head - it's been what, two months since she first departed Riften with Cynric at her side, ready to strike hard at Markarth's coffers?

"Brynjolf," Istha responds, dipping her head respectfully. "I need Cynric."

"You're in luck, for once," Vex says, watching Istha with that level, haughty gaze of hers. "He was supposed to be on a contract in Whiterun but he showed up early yesterday with Etienne in tow."

As she speaks her gaze shifts to Ralof, who still lurks uncomfortably behind Istha, and gives him the kind of predatory smile that has battle-scarred mercenaries all over Skyrim tripping on each other's tails to kneel at her feet. Istha would tell her fellow thief to spare her poor follower the usual seduction, but something has her frowning. She doesn't remember an Etienne in the Guild, and though she may have kept her distance from the majority of the other thieves, she likes to think she at least knew the names of the people she trusted enough to sleep with in the same Cistern.

But it doesn't matter. She isn't here to get cozy with Riften's most talented criminals - although she's sure the connections will come in useful eventually.

"He's in the Cistern?" Istha asks, her feet already turning to the door past Vekel's dilapidated bar.

"Who, Etienne?" Brynjolf asks.

"No, Cynric!" Istha responds over her shoulder. Ralof follows nervously, opening and closing his mouth as though he has something to say. She ignores him as she passes through the passageway and into the Cistern. She finds Cynric standing on the edge of a small crowd gathered around one bed. Istha's eyebrows raise as she draws close enough to hear the ranting coming from the young Breton man on the bed.

"What's going on?" she asks Cynric, who instead of responding gives her a long, searching look, and then the same to Ralof.

"There are Thalmor scouts creeping through the Ratways, they're scaring Etienne."

"What happened to that poor bastard?" Istha murmurs, catching a glimpse of bloodshot eyes and teeth bared in frantic aggression.

"The Thalmor got him. He says the Ambassador herself interrogated him for three weeks until the Dragonborn freed him."

A chill creeps up Istha's spine, and if she were more superstitious she'd say it's the trailing touch of a Daedra's cold fingertips along the length of her back, but she has bigger problems now than daedra. Cynric's words echo in her mind - Thalmor got him, Ambassador herself interrogated, Dragonborn freed him - until the less important words filter out and all that remains is _'Dragonborn'_ and _'freed'_. She suddenly finds that her lips are very wet, and runs the tip of a pink tongue over the cracked and dehydrated edges.

"The Dragonborn," Istha asks, pronouncing every syllable carefully.

"Where have you been?" Cynric asks with a gravelly laugh. "Everyone in a Stormcloak-occupied hold is talking about it. They say the Embassy is completely destroyed - dragonfire, if you believe the couriers - and the only survivors are the Dragonborn and our own Etienne."

"Dragonborn, this isn't what is sounds like-" Ralof begins, and Istha begins to feel anger like a waterfall roaring behind her eyes - but it's just her dovah, fully awake and ready to sear their pain into flesh and stone. She has been lied to - she can see it in the Stormcloak's pupils, dilated even though the Cistern is dimly lit, and his pallor, and the knee he bounces up and down when he leans his weight on the other leg.

"Shut up." Istha interrupts, and turns back to Cynric, completely focused on her former lover. "When did they escape?"

"Did I hear your Nord friend right?" Cynric questions instead. "Did he call you Dragonborn?"

"Don't answer my question with another one," Istha snaps, and all of a sudden this conversation is almost too much to bear - three different people trying to pry three different pieces of information from each other's lips - it's like being back at home in Morrowind with the Elves that raised her. She stares Cynric down, and knows her unnerving red eyes put her at an advantage above the Breton. The wry humour in his gaze is gone now. This serious side of him is one that Istha hasn't seen very often in between jokes about Thrynn "getting real friendly with the wildlife," among others.

"Etienne said he wandered for about two weeks before I found him. Add another week to that for the trip back to Riften," Cynric eventually admits, his tone low and wary.

Istha finally turns back to her Stormcloak companion, grinding her teeth as Ralof takes a nervous step backwards.

"Three weeks," she murmurs, eyes dangerously aglow. The _dovah_ are awake, but she has them in a frigid control. This is a cold fury, not a hot one. "Plenty of time for a courier to reach Windhelm."

"The entire castle was ordered not to tell you, I don't know why, Jarl Ulfric-"

She punches him, finds a vengeful pleasure in the resounding crack that echoes through the Cistern's dome as his nose gives way under her studded knuckles. The man shaking on the cot flinches at the sound and begins to wail once more. Istha is half annoyed, half pitying, and above all terrified that she will find Larjan in the same condition.

"The Dragonborn that freed you," she starts, shoving Cynric and a hovering Tonila aside as she marches towards this Etienne - this man who is here instead of the person she wants to see. "Larjan Silvereyes. Blond hair, eyes so pale he looks like he should be blind. Where is he now?"

"I don't know!" the man screams, straining against the weight of the hands and arms trying to restrain his thrashing limbs to the cot. "I've told you, I don't know! I don't know where he is! Please just let me go, I don't know anything!"

"Istha, you're scaring him - you're not suited for something as delicate at this-"

At the word 'delicate' she whirls around, ready to punch Cynric as well. Years and years of trying to be 'delicate' and 'ladylike' and 'refined' for her pretend mother when all she wanted to do was bare her teeth when she fought and use that 'underhanded barbarian magic, like an Ashlander' if the situation called for it have turned the word 'delicate' into a pretty-sounding insult.

Damn well she's not delicate. 'Delicate' would have never survived this long in Skyrim.

"I'm leaving," she states loudly. "I'm _done_. Ralof, you and your Stormcloaks and your damned Jarl can go fuck yourselves and each other for all I care. I want nothing to do with your lies."

Istha stalks towards the ladder leading up to the graveyard entrance, fighting every step of the way with her _dovahs_ ' yearnings to set various Guild property and maybe also a certain lying Stormcloak on fire - she is the dominant _dov_ here, dammit, she will make them listen! Perhaps it is because she is devoting so much of her mind to restraining the restless souls that Mercer Frey's appearance takes her by such surprise. She stands aside from the ladder as someone climbs down, and doesn't register the Guildmaster's leering face and piercing gray eyes until he reaches the last few rungs and jumps down in front of her as silently as an alley cat.

"Well, well, well," he sneers. "Brynjolf's prodigy, returned at last."

"Returned, and gone again," Istha mutters, and he slaps her.

He. Slaps. Her.

In the time that it takes her to recover from the blow that has her seeing bright spots on the edges of her vision, she thinks briefly of Ralof, and almost feels regret for hitting him. And then the dragons rush forward, fuelled by eras of suppressed hate and dormant violence, and it's all she can do to choke down the inferno they try to make her Shout. The Guildmaster is one of the most rude and arrogant people she's ever had the misfortune of meeting, but even so she has a grudging sort of respect for the man keeping the Guild afloat, and she doesn't want to turn him into ashes. As it is her mouth fills suddenly with the acrid taste of smoke and that smell of burnt flesh she hasn't quite forgotten since Helgen, and the coughing fit that has her doubling over seconds later only further invites Mercer's mocking.

"Get up," he says roughly. "And think very carefully about what you answer next."

Istha stands and presses her palm to her stinging cheek, already summoning a mild frostbite spell to numb the throbbing sting.

"The Thieves Guild is not a hobby. The Cistern is not a vacation home. We earn our membership with gold. No gold, no place in our ranks. So tell me, Elf. Where have you been for the past two months?"

_Well Guildmaster, I'm actually some kind of half-mortal half-divine legend revered by a culture neither of us belong to, and every once in a while fate - or Akatosh, whichever you care to believe in - decides to throw a dragon or a crazed Thalmor maniac my way. You know what they say; variety is the spice of life. But don't worry, I stole plenty along the way to keep my skills sharp._

She glances across the Cistern to the quickly scattering Guild members. Cynric still stands beside the cot of a shivering Etienne, and Istha tries to convey a silent plea to him. If he sees her beneath the ever-present hood, he doesn't show it, and turns away after a moment. She's on her own. She could give Mercer the truth - but something in his eyes tells her to keep her dragonblood status to herself.

"I blew up the College, killed some dragons, forcibly joined and recently deserted an army," Istha says instead.

This time when he tries to hit her, she's ready. At least, she's ready for the first attack, but somehow in the space of a blink after her first evasive sidestep, Mercer twists her around and presses her back to the ladder. A glass dagger draws a thin line of dark blood against the gray of her throat, and Mercer's gaze flickers down to it for a moment. Istha sees a shadow of emotion on his face; not quite greed or lust or anger but something darker and more violent. It is replaced by his usual scowl before she has time to place it. She remembers a conversation held in the Guild ages ago, something about Mercer having a particular mistrust of female Dunmer, and thinks that maybe she should avoid bleeding near him.

"It's been a while since someone managed to avoid a strike of mine," Mercer growls almost approvingly. He's very close to her, pinning her to the ladder with his weight and the threat of the dagger and she doesn't like it one bit. "I'll give it to you, Elf. You're good. You might just be the best in the Guild after me. See, even Maven Black-Briar noticed after your stunt at Goldenglow. Asked specifically for you for a job in Whiterun. But you were nowhere to be found. I'll ask again, Elf. Where. _Were. You_?"

Istha is having trouble even seeing straight - her _dovah_ are putting up a ruckus for being denied a little Shout in Mercer's face and the dagger against her neck is not helping with the developing headache.

"Practicing lockpicking in Cidhna Mine," she murmurs. "And Illusion magic at the College. You know, invisibility spells, shrouds..."

"I have to speak to Brynjolf about the kinds of unmotivated sewer rats he chooses to sponsor," Mercer intones. "For now, get your travel gear together. I didn't like sending Vex on jobs you were supposed to do, and neither did Maven, but she did a decent job of bringing back news. I'm going to rid the Guild of a nuisance, and your punishment is to accompany me."

Istha's first instinct is to object. She has other items to attend to on her to-do list - like finding Larjan, and travelling to Aftland with him, and finding the Elder Scroll that apparently holds the answers to the questions of their mutual existence - and she does not have the time or patience to be dragged along on one of her Guildmaster's little field trips. But she knows, even as the glass dagger is sheathed and Mercer stalks off towards his desk like nothing happened, that she has no choice.

"Where are we going?" Istha calls out, wearily resigned to yet another setback.

Mercer pauses in his prowl, and turns back towards her almost thoughtfully.

"We're going," he says, "To where the end began."

 

......................................................................................................................................

 

She blames the arrow that catches her in the shoulder on the lingering dizziness that remains from the Word Wall.

The impact forces her backward, harder than one who has never been shot with an arrow would think. Istha's back falls against someone's chest - Ralof or Mercer's, she can't say for sure - but from the way she's shoved to the side, she suspects Mercer. Dammit, and Mercer warned her that Karliah was good with a bow. He filled her and Ralof in on the way, and she should have been prepared!

Then the numbness starts to spread, and she stops thinking logically.

The stone beneath her is freezing, courtesy of Ancient Norse architecture. She doesn't know when she got there. Ralof hovers nervously over her, his blue eyes wide and panicked. She wants to tell him to take out the arrow, even though some part of her is dimly aware that will make her bleed out, but her lungs are ice. Mercer is yelling somewhere in the background, and in response, a cool female voice. Syllables crystalline sharp, like icicles that adorn troll dens. Everything is so cold. Even the _dovah_ are subdued by it. So, so cold. This isn't how she wants to die - she was supposed to make sure Larjan is okay, supposed to figure out where she came from and why and supposed to defeat Alduin. Ending her fate here is too cruel, and if she had any strength she'd curse Daedra and Divine alike with her dying breath.

"We've got to get you out of here, Dragonborn," Ralof whispers, trying to slip his hands beneath her torso. Behind him, Mercer stalks closer, the sword raised. Istha's lips fall apart, a tiny whisper of protest flickering out. "I'm sorry, this is going to hurt-" Ralof says, pulling her closer to his chest - and just as he says that, Mercer's sword comes down.

Ralof's head doesn't come off on the first swing, but it doesn't need to. He won't be surviving that blow. Mercer kicks her poor Stormcloak soldier's body aside, and sneers down at her.

"How interesting," he gloats. "It appears Gallus's history has repeated itself. Karliah has provided me with the means to be rid of you, and this ancient tomb becomes your final resting place. But do you know what intrigues me the most? The fact that this was all possible because of you."

The blade hovers just above her sternum. Istha wheezes faintly, drawing air in. She needs him to come just a little closer... Mercer leans over, and she exhales the last of the air that remains in her frozen lungs. _Yol_ , she thinks, and for a moment she fears there is not enough air for the fire to ignite - and then Mercer gets a faceful of dragonfire. It's not enough to kill him, not even enough for a serious injury. But it's enough to see the small flame that singes away the hair on one side of his head and reddens the skin of his jaw and throat.

"You gray-skinned bitch," he yells out hoarsely, clasping one hand to his face. But Istha only has a moment to delight in her last revenge, because in the next moment, Mercer's Dwarven sword is cutting her open from the shoulder to the hip on the opposite side, cutting deeply and viciously into the soft flesh underneath the Guild armour. It burns, it burns as hot as the arrow was cold, and the worst part is that she isn't even given the option of screaming.

"I'll be certain to give Brynjolf your regards," Mercer growls, and Istha's eyes flutter shut. Staying

                                  awake is...

 

 

                                                                                 just too...

(Difficult.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know... I know. This chapter is SO LATE. 
> 
> I'm really sorry guys. The last two or three weeks since I updated have been awful. Something I've been planning for the last six years (that's a third of my life!) fell through and I spent a week crying, and then I was horribly sick and busy again and I finally felt so guilty that I made myself finish editing this chapter. Any theories for what happens next? 
> 
> The cliffhanger isn't much of a cliffhanger (or is it?) because we all know the Dragonborn survives Mercer's (hella rude) backstabbing (or do they?) but uh, hopefully I have you a little bit interested. Sorry Ralof. You know, I almost sent him back to Windhelm, and then I was like 'nah, I should make use of that character death tag.' Whoops.
> 
> Farewell friends. The next (and last!) chapter of this part of The Ones will be up a lot sooner than this one, but still not quite as soon as usual. Prom is this weekend, so my friends are forcing me to engage in large amounts of social interaction. I'm very excited.


	27. L - The Most Dangerous Ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, this is the longest chapter yet, twice as long as some of the short ones.  
> Watch for the title drop.

The Wolf pauses at the crest of a ridge, bright red tongue lolling out of an open mouth. The pale fur surrounding his muzzle is stained dark red with the remains of a successful hunt, and the Wolf licks absently at his gums.

He has been roaming for five days and nights now, always trying to stay ahead of the scent that drifts downwind no matter where he goes. The scents disappeared on the second day, and he had begun to think that the pack had retreated, had understood the importance of the Wolf's first hunt. He had slowed his travels, had lingered in the remains of what had once been a mountain cabin because the abandoned location had brought him a fierce sense of longing and hurt. 

And then, a day later, one of the scents had reappeared. The female, alone.

The Wolf isn't sure what to think of the scents. His followers are his brothers and sisters, pack-mates, but they smell wrong. Not of enemies, but not of proper siblings either. This makes the Wolf uneasy, so for several days he has simply chosen not to give in and allow himself to be found by the female.

When his paws begin to sting with cold, he finally turns its back on the North and returns to the flatter plains of the South. There is snow here, too, but prey stands out in stark contrast against the white, and the Wolf's pale blond fur is an advantage.

The plains unsettle him as well. He has memories that are not his own, of golden skin and armour, of scarlet blood trickling from an arrow into eyes that gaze blankly at the sky, of defeat. But the Wolf shies away, avoiding the thoughts like it would avoid an untriggered bear trap.

He didn't think his pack-sister would find him here. She emerges from a rocky outcropping as he drinks from an icy river, occasionally snapping his jaws at the salmon that leapt out of the rapids. The fishing attempts are half-hearted - his stomach is filled by the flesh of an Orsimer mercenary, whose remains lie a few steps away from the river.

He raises his head to look at the she-wolf and stands very still, still ankle-deep in the river. Her russet fur is redder than it should be, but the scent of blood is stale. Not hers, then. She barks once. The Wolf tilts his head and whines, knowing that she is his superior and he should listen to her command, but not quite comprehending what she wants from him.

The she-wolf bounds forward, splashing across the river and he crouches at her approach, snarling half-heartedly. Her jaws fasten around the folds of fur at the back of his neck, much in the same way a mother wolf holds her cubs. She growls again, slightly muffled by a mouthful of pale fur. They spend a tense moment communicating with quiet snarls and whimpers, until her hold on his neck relaxes and she steps back.

As the Wolf watches, the she-wolf's body elongates and shifts. When the body has grown humanoid enough to stand on two hind legs, the she-wolf shakes off some sort of bundle tied to her back, and it falls to the rocks with a clatter as she takes the form of a human woman. Her bare feet crunch soundlessly on the thin layer of snow coating the rocks, but unnatural heat rolls off her body, melting the snow directly underneath her soles.

"Can you understand me, Larjan?" she asks softly, bending down and untying the bundle.

The Wolf whines, amber eyes fixed on her hands as she reveals familiar pieces of armour.

"Come here," she says, and the Wolf creeps forward, head still bowed as though he expects to receive a blow from his superior for avoiding her for so long. "Can you smell it?"

There is salt on her face, and the Wolf raises his head to lick cautiously at her cheeks. She pushes his muzzle away with gentle firmness, but the Wolf remains unconvinced. His pack-sister has been crying. He can still smell blood and sweat and tears, but she holds the pieces of armour up to his nose instead.

He knows that scent.

It his scent... and yet it is not. The Wolf whines anxiously, tail between his legs.

"Come on, Larjan," she pleads. "Please. For Hircine's sake, I've already lost Skjor. I'm not returning to Jorrvaskr without you."

He sits, tail curled demurely over his paws, ears pricked forward.

"Please," she says, and the sharp taste of tears grows stronger. "Please, Larjan. You've been a wolf for six days now. Not even Vilkas lasted that long. You have to return, or I have to put you down. The Circle's rules. We can't let feral werewolves roam around Skyrim."

She sits in the snow, knees pulled close to her naked torso. Her gaze is unfocused on the horizon, reflecting gray clouds and a frozen landscape. The Wolf wonders if he should bring her one of the salmon that leap out of the river so tantalizingly. He can't go wrong with food, can he? The Wolf has been eating nearly everything it comes across for the last few nights, or at the very least standing over his kills and growling at carrion birds and the stray fox.

"Please," his pack-sister says again, and the Wolf sniffs warily at the armour again. It is shrouded in human scent, one that he half-remembers as though he's faced it in a long-departed dream. The scent is to him as his pack-sister's human scent it to her wolf scent. The Wolf contemplates this, rests his head on her bent knees. A tear falls on his ear, and it flicks of its own volition.

"Skjor is dead," Aela says. "The rest of the Circle refuses the call of the blood. Please, Larjan. It's just you and me left. And if you can't return, it'll be just me."

The Wolf blinks bright amber eyes at her, slowly and deliberately. She looks at them for a long time, but no trace of blue can be seen in the iris.

 

............................................................................................................................................................

 

The Wolf is on the prowl again, heading further South with growing frustration. The she-wolf won't let him hunt. She follows his tracks, sometimes fully wolf, sometimes something half between woman and wolf, but never lets him out of her sight.

Her warning howls split the air whenever he catches the scent of prey, and all chances are ruined.

The Wolf needs constant nourishment. That night he curls underneath the protection of low-hanging evergreen branches, and listens to the she-wolf's patient breathing match the rumbles of his stomach. He falls asleep before she does, weakened by the unnatural hunger that now plagues him. The next morning, Larjan awakes, shivering, to find warm russet fur pressed against his bare back.

He crawls out from the shelter of branches, staring up at the pale morning sky with amazement. He reaches for his temples with shaking hands, as though afraid of what he might find, and presses his palms to the sides of his head.

And he laughs, laughs so hard that tears run down his cheeks and his chest is racked with pain.

Aela is awake in an instant, her eyes flickering from brown to gold in her unease. She is more human than wolf when she smiles, but it is still disorienting to see her curved teeth, too big for their current mouth.

"You're human again," she says with relief, the lisp more pronounced at the beginning of her words than at the end as she shifts to human. Larjan suddenly becomes very aware of his nudity, but she seems entirely unbothered by both the cold wind and the display of her body.

"Aela," Larjan says, his grin splitting his face in two. "Aela, Aela!"

"Yes, whelp?" she asks, almost affectionate in her exasperation.

"They're gone," he says.

"Who is?"

"My _dovah_. I mean, I can still feel them. But they're asleep. Aela, it's so quiet," Larjan says. She watches him with a peculiar expression.

“That's not what most new bloods say,” she replies eventually. “Most of them say it's louder. No comment on your new senses?”

Larjan pauses and considers his new awareness of the world. Skyrim is a gray land to begin with, but the colours his eyes see have been further muted in favour of the distance he can now focus to.

“Yes, well, there's that too,” he says, still clearly far more excited about the absence of the hurtful voices in his head. But once she points it out, he becomes overwhelmed by all the new scents and sounds. The Wolf is unimpressed, but he is by how sharp and clear and fast his mind is. He turns around to appreciate the full extent of the world around him, and hears Aela draw a sharp breath.

Larjan spins back around immediately, claws already elongating and muscles rippling as he searches for the threat that has her alarmed. But he and his Shield-Sister are the only living creatures around.

"Larjan, your back," Aela breathes, her unpainted face expressive in its horror.

He remembers, with a sudden prickle of pain on the raised and darkened flesh, ~~Elenwen's eagle brand~~. Larjan turns away, trying to find an angle where Aela doesn't see the Thalmor's cruelty, but he doesn't have to look straight at her either.

“Aela, can I have my armour?”

“Of course,” she murmurs, and practically throws the bundle containing their possessions at him. She stalks off then, her face hidden by wild red tangles of hair, but he thinks he catches the scent of tears again. This is worse than some of the mornings he faced in Cyrodiil, waking next to girls whose names he could never remember, who fully expected to marry the stranger they'd picked up in the tavern the night before, and were shocked that he still wanted to continue his adventures in the rest of Tamriel.

Something nags at the back of his mind – quiet confessions at the side of an icy river – but he can't recall the words spoken. He and the Wolf are blurred but separate beings, and he is not quite sure how to access his lupine memories.

Larjan puts on the armour of the Companions slowly and carefully, tugging at every buckle and strap to distract himself from the nagging feeling at the back of his mind saying ' _this is wrong, this is so wrong_.' When he is done he begins to undo all the buckles, stripping down to his loincloth and discarding all the metal pieces on the snow around him. He walks a few paces around the pine tree and stops again in the midst of the abandoned armour. And then he begins to put it on again.

Aela returns when he has already done this routine three times, she sees him struggling with his gauntlets and laughs quietly. She still smells like tears and he doesn't know why, but at least his discomfort has brought her some kind of distraction.

"I forgot about this part," Aela comments.

"You might have mentioned lycanthropy and nudist tendencies being a package deal," Larjan complains. "How do you stand having anything on your skin? The Wolf thinks this is wrong. He wants out again."

"Put your claws away, you'll crush your ribcage and suffocate if you transform in armour," Aela warns, eyeing the involuntarily-growing claws on his twitching hands. Larjan frowns down at his fingertips and the claws retreat. "That's your problem, Larjan. You're letting your Beast Blood rule you."

Larjan doesn't like the sound of that. His father let the Blood rule him, and it ruined lives.

"Practice makes perfect?" he guesses.

"The right mindset makes perfect," Aela corrects, tapping a finger to her forehead. "I worried when I saw how... wolf you looked. Did you see my transformation? That's what you want to aim for - a balance between wolf and human. The Circle's gift is not a freedom to take lightly. So be wise with it. You are your wolf's Alpha. Make him understand, and everything won't seem so overwhelming."

Larjan looks away from her serious expression, squints at the horizon instead. He parts his lips, just enough to taste the breeze on his tongue. It's the mountains to the South-East that clue him in.

"We're close to Riverwood," he says, suddenly changing the subject. Aela blinks.

"Yes."

"I need to go there," Larjan says, growing alarmed as he thinks of how many days he has been wandering the wilderness. "Delphine will be furious."

Aela says nothing, so he turns towards her.

"Will you come with me?"

It takes her a while to respond, like her mind is troubled with conflicting goals.

"I am your forebearer," she says eventually. Larjan doesn't like the vagueness of her answer. "You are my responsibility now."

 

........................................................................................................................................................

 

He's a little shocked by how calm Delphine is when he and Aela stroll into her inn, still shaking off the stiffness of their human limbs after several hours spent travelling in wolf form.

The older Breton woman is sitting with her only two patrons - Argonian travellers breaking their fast at a table and apparently regaling her with tales of their adventures, but she immediately straightens up and excuses herself when she spots Larjan enter. He can barely hold his tongue long enough for the Blade woman to motion them into the large room and past the fake cabinet.

"Did your High Elf friend translate the dossiers?" Larjan asks as soon as they've gathered around the map in the hidden room. Delphine eyes Aela, who prowls around the sides of the hidden room examining the weapons rack and various alchemy ingredients on shelves, but Larjan simply nods. Aela can be trusted.

"He did," Delphine responds grimly. "He's given us both good and bad news."

Larjan glances at Aela.

"All right, give us the worst," he says decidedly even though Delphine hasn't really asked which he wants to hear.

"The Thalmor know nothing about dragons."

In his mind's eye, Larjan seems himself reeling backwards as though punched in the gut hard enough to take all the air out of his lungs, but in reality he remains frozen on the spot, staring at the woman who has just told them that all those weeks spent screaming for salvation in a Thalmor dungeon - seven weeks, _seven weeks_ he will never forget because of the reminder he gets every time he tries to reach for a sword with his left hand - she has just told him those seven weeks were for nothing.

"I... I," Larjan stammers, rocking back and forth on his heels as he tries to hold in the Wolf's anger. "You're sure about that?" he asks finally.

"Yes, I'm sure. However, there is good news as well. The Thalmor are looking for someone named Esbern, a colleague of mine who I've thought dead for years."

"I think Esbern would consider the Thalmor's interest in him as bad news," Larjan says carefully. Delphine had been so sure that the Thalmor and their extensive magic were the reason for the dragons returning to Tamriel, and be extension his own twisted fate, and he had played along until he'd started to believe it too. Now... what lead do they have?

"Yes, he would. That crazy old man... I thought they got him years ago."

"So what do the Thalmor want with him?" Aela asks, suddenly butting into the conversation, her face fierce and determined. Delphine, to her credit, is only momentarily taken aback.

"You mean aside from wanting to kill every Blade they can get their hands on? Well, Esbern was one of the Blade archivists, back before the Thalmor smashed us in the Great War. He knows everything about ancient dragonlore," Delphine says. She pauses for a moment, as though considering her memory of this old friend she's just discovered is still alive. "He was obsessed with it, really. Nobody paid much attention back then. I guess he wasn't as crazy as we all thought."

"So how does this help?" Larjan asks, eyebrows furrowing together in concentration. "Does this mean we have to go find Esbern?"

Delphine nods. "The dossiers seem to indicate they think he's hiding in Riften. Probably in the Ratways - it's where I'd go. Do you happen to know a Brynjolf?" Larjan shakes his head in surprise, having never heard the name, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Aela make a face. He supposes her work as a Companion takes her everywhere in Skyrim. Part of him hurts that he doesn't consider himself part of the Companions - not quite.

"Well, travel to Riften and talk to him. He's... Well-connected. A good starting point at least," Delphine muses.

"You're not coming?" Larjan's heart falls.

"No," Delphine says distractedly, already moving away, flitting between chests and shelves and racks as she begins to pack. "I have loose ends to tie up, my death to fake so the Thalmor don't torch Riverwood trying to find my trail..."

Larjan stays silent, but Aela moves closer and presses her fingertips to the inside of his wrist. He relaxes slightly under the pressure. _Pack_ , he thinks, and wishes there wasn't that tinge of doubt.

"I'll go with you as far as Lake Honrich," Aela promises quietly.

"What's at Lake Honrich?" Larjan asks.

"Some werewolf hunters who need to be taught a lesson," Aela says, her eyes darkening and flashing molten amber before she recovers control over the Wolf.

"Oh, and when you find Esbern..." Delphine interrupts, turning back towards them. "If you think I'm paranoid... You may have some trouble getting him to trust you. Just ask him where he was on the 30th of Frostfall. He'll know what it means."

The older woman pauses in her preparations in front of Larjan, smiles a thin-lipped but genuine smile, and reaches out to place a hand on Larjan's shoulder. He's suddenly struck by her age - she's far older than her battle-trained physique would suggest. Delphine's old enough to be his mother, and when he thinks of Kirstte that familiar pain in his chest returns.

"One more thing, Dragonborn," Delphine says.

"Yes?" Larjan asks, trying to get the image he has of his mountain cabin out of his head. It's hard.

"I'm glad you're back."

 

...............................................................................................................................................................

 

The Khajiit is waiting for him in Riften.

Larjan takes notice of her because at first glance he thinks she is J'aesire come alive again, a miracle brought on by the sheer unfairness of the young Khajiit girl's death. And he realizes this woman is taller and older, with darker and more prominent markings, and a glint in her gaze that is nothing like J'aesire's hopeful shine.

It's because he's staring at her, watching him, that he doesn't quite realizing the hulking brunet Nord talking to him until he already looks like he wants to crush his skull.

"You in Riften lookin' for trouble?" the man growls, a threat plainly visible in the veins that stand out in the bare arms he has crossed over his chest.

"Just passing through," Larjan says quietly, his eyes flickering to the shadows where the Khajiit woman still stands.

"Yeah? Well I got news for you, there's nothing to see here. Last thing the Black-Briars need is some stranger stickin' his nose where it don't belong."

"Never even heard of the Black-Briars," Larjan responds, trying to sound cheerful and non-threatening. The Nord gives him a non-committal grunt and another look-over, and then turns his attention back to the city gate, apparently no longer impressed with Larjan. He has a sudden memory of the several days he and Istha spent in Whiterun, after defeating Mirmulnir but before they departed for High Hrothgar. Where did that brave young man go?

And speaking of Mirmulnir... He, along with all of Larjan's other _dovah_ souls, remains strangely silent.

Larjan feels unsettled without Aela's steady lope beside him. He had known she'd only come with him as far as the outskirts of Riften's influence, but it still hurt when she left him with nothing but her Skyforge dagger. Larjan tries not to think about that. He has the Wolf for company now.

The Wolf won't be much help come nightfall, however. Larjan spends the next hour walking Riften's streets, peering at the signs that hang above shops and listening to strained conversation in alleys and on bridges. He momentarily contemplates finding a room for the night in what's known as Helga's Bunkhouse, but leaves the building as soon as the friendly blonde woman behind the counter becomes a little too friendly. The Wolf doesn't like her. Eventually he finds The Bee and Barb, whose nightly entertainment does not include the Argonian innkeepers trying to invite themselves into his bed. The price of board and room is slightly higher, but he thinks his privacy is worth the extra septims. The skin on his back prickles with discomfort.

"The strongest drink you have, please," Larjan says to the Argonian man who stops by his table, and he immediately runs off to acquire what he calls 'the house speciality'. Larjan traces a whorl in the wooden table with the tip of a trembling finger. He remembers his fingernails being gnawed to the nailbed before he took Aela's blood - now his nails are thick and long, hinting at the claws they could very well become.

The Argonian returns after a moment, setting a plain metal tankard on the table in front of Larjan with a flourish that would befit a drink of molten gold. Larjan accepts it grudgingly, looking forward to something that will numb the soreness in his muscles.

"Anything else, landstrider?" the Argonian asks, his smooth voice cutting into Larjan's thoughts. He glances up, seeing the innkeeper watching him with hopeful expectation. Larjan glances around the rest of the inn - there's a thin man having dinner with an armoured and battle-scared woman, their heads bent closely together in secrecy, and two drunk Nord men at the bar who are already well on their way to passing out despite the early hour, and won't need attention anytime soon. Larjan turns his attention back to the Argonian man - whose name, he remembers vaguely, is Talen-Jei, or something to that effect.

"Would you sit with me awhile?" Larjan asks softly. The loneliness doesn't really go away when the man sits down across the table. The Wolf pushes it away firmly. "What can you tell me about the Thieves Guild?"

Talen-Jei makes what looks like a disgusted face, though Larjan finds it hard to tell with the scales and feathers and reptilian disposition.

"They're vermin," he spits. "Garbage. The're exactly what makes this city such a horrible place to live."

"You could leave," Larjan suggests, but just as he says this Talen-Jei gives a longing look across the tavern to the Argonian woman trying to wake up the Nord drunkards at the bar.

"I couldn't. Keerava has roots here, and I could never take her away from them. And besides, the Guild is tolerable as long as they keep to the Ratway with the rest of the trash."

"The Ratway?" Larjan asks, his curiosity peaked at the mention of the same hideout Delphine suggested he search. The Argonian's eyes flash with anger and revulsion.

"Disgusting, ruined sewers filled with goodness knows what. There's an entrance down by the canal, but I'd highly advise you stay out of there... The Thieves Guild is territorial," he warns.

Larjan says nothing, but takes a heavy swig of Talen-Jei's speciality drink. The Argonian's gaze darkens at the resulting silence.

"I hope you won't be poking your head where it'll get cut off," Talen-Jei says. Larjan ignores him in favour of reaching inside the chestpiece of his ill-fitting armour, where his drastic loss of weight provides him with a single advantage - storage secure enough to deter even a seasoned pickpocket. He pulls out just enough gold to pay for Talen-Jei's peculiar beverage, and lets the coins fall onto the table. After a moment's consideration, he pulls out a few more.

"It's another ten for a room," Talen-Jei says, his reptilian eyes fixed firmly on Larjan. "Won't you be needing one?"

"No," Larjan says, standing. "I won't be coming back."

He can feel the Argonian's disapproving gaze on his back even out in Riften's streets. He wanders in a daze, past a red-headed man in the market shouting about some kind of absurd Falmer blood elixir, only to bump into the Khajiit woman that was watching him earlier.

"Sorry," he mutters, stepping aside. She does not respond, just stares at him. The hair on the back of Larjan's neck stands up, and he wonders briefly if she can smell the Wolf on him, can smell an age-old enemy. She won't attack him in the middle of the market, will she? "Can I help you?" he asks uncertainly.

"Go away, if you know what's good for you," she hisses, and brushes past him so silently that even the Wolf has to strain to hear her footsteps above the murmur of Riften's population.

"Oh, okay..." he responds. "I'll just... Be over here...?"

Larjan watches her melt into the crowd with a backwards glare at him, then he looks away hurriedly and walks faster. It isn't until he finally finds a rickety staircase leading to the waterway through Riften's lower level that he remembers Khajiit aren't allowed in Nord settlements. But he does not dwell on the peculiarity of the Khajiit woman's presence too long. J'aesire's memory disturbs him, and he will need his all wits about him while he tries to find the Thieves Guild. In a city as charmingly cutthroat as Riften, it simply does not do to show weakness.

Larjan finds the entrance to the Ratway where the Argonian barkeep promised it would be. He stops in front of the heavy wooden door, breathing through his mouth. The Wolf is restless, wants to leave behind the stench of fish and rot and death. The smell is overpowering, bringing bile to his mouth. He staggers away from the door and vomits over the edge of the docks, clutching helplessly at the armour that encases his too-frail body.

"The fuck'd you do that for?"

He glances up to find a Wood Elf in rags scowling at him.

"Water's filthy enough without you adding to it," the Elf mutters, and kicks him roughly as he passes. Larjan digs his fingers into his gloved palms, already bracing for his _dovahs_ ' resentment - they never take kindly to insult - but it doesn't come. He waits another heartbeat for the inevitable wave of fury and _killitkillitkillit_ , but it never comes. After a moment he begins to laugh.

_Fuck you too, Mirmulnir, and especially you Sahloknir._

Larjan stands and returns to the door to the Ratways. The Wolf in him growls. The last thing it wants to do is crawl into an underground cesspool of crime. Larjan swallows back the lingering taste of vomit and opens the door.

He is immediately greeted by the sight of cold, piss-stained stone and the drip-drip-drip of canal water seeping in through cracks in the water. Larjan shivers and rests his good hand on the hilt of Aela's Skyforge dagger. It helps calm him, but not enough. How strange it is to long for a full-length sword and be unable to wield one. At least in the cramped quarters of the Ratway, he reasoned, his handicap isn't so much of a disadvantage. No one would have room to swing at him.

Larjan steels his resolve and continues on, stepping lightly. Thieves are underhanded creatures, not above setting traps for unwelcome visitors, but the Wolf spots no tripwires and smells no poison on sharp hidden darts. To his surprise and increasing discomfort, the first few corridors are void of both traps and life. Larjan's gut coils tighter as he finds body after body, beggars and prostitutes and criminals alike, all slaughtered and left to rot in pools of clotted blood. Larjan pauses to examine the first few and finds them all still armed and in possession of their valuables.

Somehow, he doesn't think this is the Guild's handiwork.

He pockets whatever gold he finds and moves on, feeling sick. He is rifling through the tattered pockets of a glassy-eyed Redguard man when he hears the unmistakeable thud of a heavy wooden door closing.

Larjan isn't alone anymore.

He stands and backs away from the dead Redguard, pressing his back against the opposite wall where the shadows cast by flickering torches provide him with meagre cover. The damp cold seeps through his armour and between his shoulderblades, settling in the space where his lungs are like a beast making its home. _Drip-drip-drip._

 _This isn't the Embassy_ , he tells himself, growling quietly to try to drown out the familiarity of an underground prison. He pulls Aela's dagger from its sheath and holds it like a lifeline in numb fingers. _I'm not shackled this time. I have this dagger and the Wolf and the voices of three dragons. This isn't the Embassy._

The torch closest to him flickers violently and goes out. In the darkness left in the tunnel, only two tiny disks reflect the light of the one remaining torch. Larjan's mouth goes dry as the Khajiit woman who has always been just a step behind him in Riften melts from one shadow to another. Only those eerie, unblinking eyes and the twitching sweeps of her tail betray her unwavering advance.

"Who are you?" Larjan asks, swallowing hard. "What do you want?"

The Khajiit woman draws a wicked-sharp Orcish dagger from her belt as though in a trance, her attention firmly fixed upon him.

"I am the eagle's claws," she whispers. "May the sun never set on the Dominion."

The catwoman strikes lightning-quick, before the chill that runs down his spine has a chance to reach its destination. He lets out a yell as her dagger tears through the leather straps on the forearm he throws up to protect his face and the gauntlet loosens. He slashes wildly with Aela's dagger but the woman moves too quickly, darting in and out of his reach as she tries to find a chink in his armour.

The fight is over before it begins, as the Khajiit slides off the Skyforge blade and slumps on the floor with her teeth bared in a feral grin. Larjan staggers back, clutching at the hilt of her dagger buried in his side, shoved between the plates of his armour.

"The Thalmor's memory is long," the Khajiit woman whispers with her last breaths, her eyes glittering as she watches him fall backwards against the damp wall at his back.

_Drip-drip-drip._

He is suddenly reminded of Istha's gray hands on his bare skin, long slender fingers glowing with quiet power.

_"It's easy," she says to him in his mind. "You just have to think of happy thoughts and channel the magic to the injury. If it feels warm, it's working."_

_"I'm a Nord," past-him protests. "We don't do magic."_

_"Don't listen to that crap. It's in all the races, yours is just refusing to acknowledge it."_

His fingers curl around the dagger's rough edges, cruel and sharp like all Orsimer weapons. He doesn't make a sound as he pulls it out, a testament to seven weeks spent at ~~her "party"~~. Happy thoughts, he thinks. His older brother stumbling into the first snare he ever made, hollering at him to cut him down as he hung upside down by his ankle. Drip-drip-drip. His mother's hands, warm on his own as she aids him with mortar and pestle in making a poultice. Istha's lips fiercely moulding to his own to the tune of an Imperial headsman sharpening his axe at Helgen.

Larjan's fingertips flicker with weak golden light, and he lets out a sigh of relief as the blood flows slower. He's not strong enough to close the wound completely, but he'll live. He retrieves both daggers and wipes them down on the Khajiit woman's dress before catching a glimpse of a corner of parchment tucked into the folds of her dress. A letter. He opens it with shaking, bloody fingers.

_Shavari -_

_I have good reason to believe the target will be coming to Riften in the next few days. Discretion is preferred, but elimination of the target is of the highest priority. The usual restrictions on exposure are lifted -- you will be reassigned outside Skyrim if necessary, without penalty._   
_Do not fail me._

_-E_

Larjan pockets it with a dull ringing noise in his ears. He wants to cry, and thinks for a moment that he should not - he is twenty and three, and a man, and a Nord - but he does so anyway. He hasn't escaped. All this time, and he will never be able to leave the Embassy behind, not even when he's across the province and ~~Elenwen's solar~~ is nothing more than a pile of smoking rubble. She will still try to hunt him down, ~~her pet Dragonborn, her favoured guest~~. His eyesight blurs as he blinks away tears, stumbling down the corridor with the two daggers clenched tightly.

It's hard to tell who's more surprised when he rounds the corner into a larger, three-leveled chamber - Larjan, or the Thalmor sentry that stands there.

The High Elf opens his mouth to shout a warning, only to have the Orcish dagger shoved down his throat. The sentry gargles loudly and falls, already forgotten as Larjan turns towards the other three Thalmor soldiers positioned on various levels.

"It's him!"

"Death is the only escape from your misery, Nord dog!"

Larjan is on fire from the inside before the first soldier even reaches him. He stands with his feet apart, shoulders braced, eyes blazing with righteous fury. The _Thu'um_ is on the tip of his tongue, ready to be set free -

"Yol!" Larjan shouts, and the soldier falters. There are no flames.

 _Hunuthnok!_ he screams. _Help me!_ But Larjan's third _dovah_ does not answer in his slumber.

"Fus!" Larjan shouts, falling to his knees. As the Thalmor soldier is nearly upon him, he tries one more time. "Feim!"

His yells are loud, tearing at the back of his throat, but they are nothing compared to the _Thu'um_ he should have. He just barely manages to parry the soldier's sword with his daggers, feeling weak and shaken. He's going to die.

"Sahloknir!" he screams. "Mirmulnir! Hununthnok! Please!"

He's going to die here, deep underground without the glorious sky above to look at, with the _drip-drip-drip_ of water and blood all around him like her dungeon, pierced through with Elven weaponry. The Orcish dagger in his weakened hand falls to the stones with a clatter after a particularly violent blow from the Thalmor soldier. _No_ , he thinks. _I'm not ready. I'm not going to die, not today, not yet. I don't want to die. I don't want to die!_

The Wolf surges forward with snarls and snapping teeth.

The armour on his chest crushes the Wolf's expanding bulk, but all he needs are the twisted claws that erupt on his uninjured hand and the canines. The first bite catches on golden metal, but the helmet comes off easily enough once the Wolf pins his writhing prey down on the rocks. The second bite crushes the Elf's skull and the taste of blood jerks Larjan back to reality.

He spits, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand once his features turn human again. The crushing pain in his chest recedes, but doesn't go away. Larjan shakes as he looks down at the mess that used to the Thalmor's head.

There are shouts echoing through the tunnels as the other two Thalmor race up to join their fallen comrade, but Larjan only crouches there, sobbing. His side feels wet, and as he twists to look at it, he sees the wound Shavari left has opened again. _Drip-drip-drip._ Blood and canal water.

~~_The party's just started_ , she says, smile wicked sharp like the Orcish dagger that pierced him.~~

"Mirmulnir," Larjan breathes, choking on the name through the heaviness in his throat. "Sahloknir. Please." _I didn't mean it. I didn't want you to leave me - you can come back and control me, I don't care, but please don't be gone. Don't leave me alone._ "Please," he pleads. There is no answer, not even the slightest response. There is only the Wolf, still on the prowl for another threat to bring down.

Larjan lies down, pressing his forehead to the slick cold stone. He feels clammy, shaky.

Behind him, locks slide and click, and hinges creak. An old man in ragged clothing bends over Larjan, turning him onto his back.

"You spoke the language of dragons," the man says wonderingly. _Spoke, not Shouted_ , Larjan tries to say, but his voice has left him in more ways than one. The echoes in the tunnels grow louder - the other two Thalmor soldiers have nearly returned. The man curses, sparking a fire in his palm and sending it towards the nearest tunnel. Something explodes outside of Larjan's vision.

"Come, _Dovahkiin_ ," the old man says, but when his arms wrench Larjan up, he blacks out with the name _Dovahkiin_ echoing in his head like a mockery of the shouts of the Thalmor.

_Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin._

 

...............................................................................................................................................................

 

"That's it, boy. Open your eyes."

Conciousness comes at him with the force of a giant club to the forehead. Larjan groans as the world blinks into focus, finding the old man's face swimming before his eyes.

"...Thalmor," Larjan mutters.

"They're still out there," the man says with a nervous look at his door. Larjan turns his head to look at it better and notices an absurd amount of locks and door bars on it. "You lead them to me," the man accuses, and Larjan realizes that although his healed wounds can only be the work of the old man, he is also bound tightly to a chair.

"I didn't..." Larjan protests. "Wait. You're... Esbern?"

"How did you find me?"

"Delphine..." Larjan says. "Dossiers."

"Delphine? So you've found her, and she led you to me? And here I am, caught like a rat in a trap."

"You _are_ in the Ratways," Larjan says. Attempting to poke fun at crazy old men who have tied you to a chair in their bedroom is a bad idea even on good days, but in Larjan's defence his head is still foggy.

"Yes, that was the joke." Esbern snaps.

"Nevermind that," Larjan says weakly. "Delphine needs your help to stop the dragons."

"A likely story. Who are you really? How did you know those words?"

"The Blades have been searching for a Dragonborn," Larjan explains. "I'm Dragonborn. Dovahkiin, like you called me. Here I am. I'm not the only one - there's a woman named Istha, but I don't know where she is."

Esbern's eyes narrow in suspicion. Larjan struggles to keep his gaze on the other man's eyes. He's not lying, not technically. He's supposed to be Dragonborn, though he doesn't know what's happened to his Voice. There will be time to figure that out later - for now, he needs to gain Esbern's trust.

"Elenwen was always good at mind games," he says softly. Larjan flinches at her name, and the old man's eyebrows raise in surprise.

"I know," Larjan responds duly. "I spent seven weeks in her Embassy. A knuckle lost for every one."

The old man's gaze darts down to the cords that bind Larjan's hands tightly. His left hand is coiled hard enough to pop the veins out, and he forces it to relax.

"How do you... How do I know this isn't a trick?"

"Delphine said to remember the 30th of Frostfall," Larjan says.

"Ah. Indeed, indeed. I do remember. Delphine really is alive, then?" the old man said, moving behind Larjan to cut through the bonds with a small knife. "She keeps up the fight, after all these years? I thought she'd have realized it's hopeless by now. I tried to tell her, years ago..."

"It's not hopeless!" Larjan argued, newly invigorated by the remark he took as a personal insult. "I did not crawl through two Nordic tombs, kill three dragons, and sit in a Thalmor cell for seven weeks to be told it's hopeless so _Talos help me_ , you better have a good reason for saying that."

"Haven't you figured it out yet? What more needs to happen before you all wake up and see what's going on?"

The bonds around Larjan's hands loosen and he winces as he pulls them to his front and massages his wrists gingerly. Scars still linger on the pale skin where her manacles cut into his flesh, but there's no time to treat them gently now.

"Tell me later," Larjan says. "First, we have to get out of here. This place is crawling with Thalmor."

The old man nods and begins bustling around the room, aimlessly throwing possessions on the floor and in the air. Larjan raises an eyebrow but says nothing, allowing the elderly Blade his strange packing methods.

"Can't use the usual entrances," he mutters, stuffing potions and clothing into a small rucksack. "They'll be watching those."

"Would the Thieves Guild help us?" Larjan suggests hesitantly. Esbern stops his flurry of activity suddenly, standing up straight and frowning at his lock-adorned door.

"Very well, the graveyard it is," he says, and practically skips to a larder full of food. Larjan's eyes bulge out.

"The graveyard?" he exclaims. "I have no intention of dying today!"

"Neither do I, young man," Esbern says seriously. "So you'd best hope the Guild feels friendly today."

 

...........................................................................................................................................................................

 

The circular, domed chamber behind the door is surprisingly large for something concealed so deeply underground, and he stops in the doorway for a moment to take it in. A pool filled with murky water occupies the centre of the floor, though a thin stone walkway extends around the sides of the room, and some ingenious entrepreneur has built a wooden platform on stilts over the pool.

Larjan lets the Wolf taste the air, trusting its judgement. Overlying Riften's infamous stench of fish and sewage is the scent of piss and beer, and more faintly, sweat-tanned leather and sharp iron. There are people sitting at rickety wooden tables on the far side, but he recognizes none of their scents. As he draws closer along the stone walkway, he sees that every one of them is already watching him and Esbern.

A great brute of a man with impressive blond sideburns blocks the bridge to the bar with his arms crossed.

"Hi," Larjan says uncertainly. The man grunts, so he takes it as a sign to continue, though the look on the bouncer's face says anything but. Larjan edges past him, wary of the weight that could be put into a single punch from the brute. A few months ago he was strong and healthy and could have taken the bouncer in a fist fight - but the Thalmor have left him skinny and weak.

He can only hope Esbern knows what he's doing, but the old man's face remains hidden in the shadow of his hooded robes, and all he can see it the mouth set into an emotionless line, framed by whitened stubble. With a nervous look around, Larjan walks towards the red-headed man who sits drinking at the bar. He looks up as Larjan approaches, gives him a scrutinizing once over that leaves Larjan unsure if the infamous thief wants his gold or his body.

"Brynjolf?" he guesses, trying to put his discomfort out of mind.

"Depends on who's asking," the red-head murmurs, his gaze moving on to Esbern and growing darker. "I see you've managed to drag our favourite tenant out of his quarters. No one's ever done that."

"Peace, Brynjolf," Esbern says with a quiet chuckle. "Larjan here is a friend, but I can't say the same for the others that are looking for us."

"The Thalmor," Brynjolf says, nodding sagely. "We were beginning to wonder what they wanted."

"The way behind us is blocked," Esbern confides. "We'll pay good coin for, ah, access to another exit. A _safer_ one."

Brynjolf grunts non-committally and turns back to nurse his drink, and for a moment Larjan thinks he and Esbern will be left to fend for themselves against the Thalmor after all. Then the red-headed thief flags down the bartender, and the two men lean closer to speak.

"You wouldn't happen to have two empty sacks, would you Vekel?"

Larjan has a sudden vision of being stuffed into a sack and smuggled out of Riften on a supply cart. The Wolf in him recoils from the idea, but he has to grudgingly admit that at this point he just wants to get out. To his surprise, the bartender simply returns with two small sacks, barely large enough for more than a few potatoes.

"Thanks Vekel, you're the man," Brynjolf says with a grin, and the bartender snorts like it's some kind of inside joke between them. The thief slips off his chair and holds a sack out to both Larjan and Esbern. "Sorry friends," he apologizes. "Can't have you seeing the way."

 _Ah. So that's how it is_. Larjan takes the sack, feeling the rough material with two fingers. Beside him, Esbern seems to be just as reluctant to put it over his head, but does so with only a moment's hesitation. Larjan takes a deep breath, and another, and another. He pulls the sack over his face and regrets it that very instant. Strong hands grasp his arms, and he finds himself marched forward.

He waits for his _dovah_ souls to awaken, to beat their wings against the inside of his skull and roar furiously at being treated this way. But the only thing he hears is a quiet growl from the Wolf. He doesn't know how to feel about that.

Numb. Empty, maybe. Incomplete. He never knew they would change him this much.

Doors creak and Larjan obediently puts one foot in front of the other, fighting back the instinct to panic. Something drips onto his shoulder. Cold. The Wolf smells some kind of soup cooking, hears arrows thudding into woven targets and snoring from across whatever chamber they seem to be in. Then a more familiar scent, old but unmistakeable -

"Istha!" he shouts, jerking at the hands that escort him along. "Istha! Istha, where are you?"

He pulls the sack off before they can stop him, the Wolf's eyes already adjusting to the dim light. There are murmurs and complaints all around him, rough voices saying put that back on! and how does he know Istha? and then, kneeling by a pool of murky water and standing, a face he recognizes.

"Dragonborn," Etienne Rarnis says, stepping forward and grasping Larjan's hand in his own by way of greeting. "It's good to see you, friend."

Larjan smiles crookedly, his eyes raking over the new sparkle in the man's eyes, the colour that's returned to his cheeks. This is not the prisoner he once knew. Has he recovered as much as well?

"Etienne," Larjan responds. "A friend of mine, a Dark Elf named Istha. She was here, wasn't she? Recently?"

"How can you tell?" a hooded Breton watches impassively, arms crossed over a chest that's quite broad considering his petite race.

"I..." _Smelled her._ "Never mind that, where is she?"

"This Istha... The other one you spoke of?" Esbern asks, suddenly materializing at his side, slipping his own sack off. Brynjolf looks unhappy at this development, but makes no move to blindfold them again. Larjan nods.

"I never spoke with her, but rumour around here is she left for a job with the boss," Etienne admits.

"A job? The boss? Istha's with the Guild?" Larjan asks, feeling the betrayal like a punch to the gut. He tells himself that she can join who she wants, find coin however she fancies, and he shouldn't fault her for that, but...

"They should be back in a day or two," the hooded Breton says. "We can tell her you asked. Until then, scram."

Larjan ignores him and turns back to Etienne, who looks infinitely more welcoming.

"Where were they headed?"

Etienne shrugs. "Snow Veil Sanctum, I heard. On the coast between Windhelm and Winterhold, but it's almost impossible to find without a guide. You're better off waiting around for them to return."

Larjan holds onto those words as he's pulled away from Etienne and the scowling Breton at his side, as the sack is pulled back over his head and he's told to climb up a ladder. _Snow Veil Sanctum_ , he tells himself. _Snow Veil Sanctum._

"Thank you," he murmurs to the thieves that melt back into the shadows once he and Esbern are safely outside Riften's walls.

 

.................................................................................................................................................................

 

Travel with Esbern is excruciatingly slow.

They take a carriage to Windhelm, which wasn't so bad, but beyond that the only option is walking. Larjan knows he could cover the remaining distance in less than a day in Beast form, but that's out of the question with Esbern at his side. The elderly Blade is already sceptical about this detour North, but Larjan only gives him a pained look every time he complains about the distance and the cold and the snow that won't stop falling.

He needs to find Istha. He tells himself it's because the Blades need a Dragonborn, a real one who hasn't suddenly lost the _Thu'um_ , but a quieter part of him thinks he might make this trip even without the weight of the world lingering over their heads.

To distract Esbern, Larjan asks him what he knows about Alduin, what they started discussing in the Ratways before the whirlwind of escape interrupted them.

"Alduin has returned, just like the prophecy said! The Dragon from the dawn of time, who devours the souls of the dead! No one can escape his hunger, here or in the afterlife! Alduin will devour all things and the world will end. Nothing can stop him!"

"I don't think-" Larjan tries to reason, but the old man's speech is a boulder pushed down a hill, gaining more momentum as he talks.

"I tried to tell them. They wouldn't listen. Fools. It's all come true... All I could do was watch our doom approach..." Esbern continues sadly.

"You're talking about the literal end of the world?"

"Oh yes. It's all been foretold. The end has begun. Alduin has returned. Only a Dragonborn can stop him. But no Dragonborn has been known for centuries... Until I heard you."

Larjan's mouth grows dry. How to tell the crazy old man that what he heard was the dragon language without the Voice? How to explain that he had the _Thu'um_ just days ago, and now the _dovah_ in his head remain hauntingly silent? He doesn't think they're gone, exactly - he can feel their weight pressing against his own soul sometimes. But in any case, they won't - or _can't_ \- respond.

"We should be going to Delphine," Esbern says, a now-familiar mantra. "We have much to discuss."

"Not without Istha," Larjan responds stubbornly, his eyes fixed on the peak of the snowy hill they now climb, barely visible through the heavy snowfall. The snow settles into the creases of the armour on his shoulders no matter how often he tries to brush it off, and clumps his eyelashes together with its wet mass, and the bottom half of his travelling cloak is frozen solid. He can't for the life of him understand why Istha and the Guild's "boss" would venture to the middle of nowhere for a job. Maybe he doesn't want to understand.

"The Guild has a poisonous sense of humour," Esbern insists. "Sending us into the middle of nowhere would seem like a good joke to them - look around? Do you see any luxurious mansions to break into here?"

The old man makes a strong argument, but Larjan presses on nonetheless, stopping at the top of the steep hill and pulling out his flask for a drink. Ale, the strong kind. The Wolf's metabolism makes it hard for him to get drunk, but a state of permanent tipsiness keeps the extremities warmer than you'd imagine. He gazes into the blizzard ahead of them, one hand shielding his face, and his pale eyes widen as he glimpses a warm glow in the distance.

"Esbern, I think we've found them!" Larjan exclaims. "Look, a fire, over there!"

"I don't see anything," Esbern says, squinting in the direction that Larjan points, but the young man is sprinting ahead without stopping to listen to complaints about old age and failing sight.

Larjan slows slightly as the faint glow grows closer, exhausted as he is at trudging through knee-high snow in full armour, but his excitement presses him on. There's a rough fur tent pitched up beside the fire under the shelter of a few evergreens, with another empty bed roll beside it. Inside the tent he can see a sleeping form, bundled tightly in furs and blankets.

"Istha!" Larjan calls as he reaches the fire. "Istha!"

She doesn't move, so he throws open the tent flaps and crouches by her head. His palms find her cheeks, cold and pale, and he draws in a sharp breath when he realizes she's not sleeping. An arrow whistles past his nose and thuds into the snowbank beside him, forcing him to fall back on his haunches. The Wolf lets out a snarl before he can stop it, but Larjan forces the transformation to wait as he pulls out Aela's dagger and gazes wildly about for his attacker.

"I'm a friend!" he yells. "It's me, Larjan!"

Esbern catches up, panting heavily, but the old Blade readies a ball of magical energy in each hand nonetheless, scanning the trees for a figure. They're both taken aback by the black-clad shadow that appears on a large rock nearby, another arrow notched into an ornately carved bow.

"I promise that I missed on purpose the first time, and it won't happen again. Back away from the girl." the soft, melodious voice says. Larjan blinks at the feminine figure poised to kill him, and cautiously drops his dagger and takes a step to the side. "What do you want?"

"Istha's my friend," Larjan explains slowly. "I was told I'd find her here. Please, she's hurt somehow, let me take a look!"

The shadow lowers her bow, but keeps the arrow loaded. They stare each other down for another agonizing moment, before Esbern extinguishes the flames in his hands and the shadow figure hops off the rock.

"I know she's hurt. I've been taking care of her," she says, striding forward and pushing Larjan aside as she crawls into the tent alongside Istha's limp form.

"What happened to her? Are you the one they call boss?" Larjan asks. The shadows laughs bitterly and pulls down the cowl on her hood, revealing surprisingly delicate Dark Elf features and lilac-coloured eyes.

"I see you're not to be dissuaded," she says. "Very well. My name is Karliah, and it's a long story. You'd better sit down."

Larjan listens as she reveals the entire, impossible story. Once she reaches the present, the Nightingale stands and adds a cut log to the fire with a shower of sparks.

"I should have been with her," Larjan says in a pained voice, his gaze fixed on the tiny opening between Istha's parted lips. Karliah insists she can save her, but to him it still seems like she's barely breathing.

"Mercer would have killed you like he killed her Stormcloak friend," Karliah says without turning around, and her tone rings with finality but Larjan is not done with his regrets yet.

"Should have been with her anyway, I could have given her more time to draw an arrow or escape or-"

"You would have died!" Karliah snaps.

"Worth it," Larjan responds. "At least she wouldn't be... like this."

Karliah stands then, and steps over Istha's still legs to kneel by her head on the side Larjan isn't already occupying.

"You love her," the Elf states, her tone undistinguishable.

"I don't know her," Larjan says quietly, brushing a gentle hand across her forehead. "For a while I thought I did, after we'd travelled through Cyrodiil for a few weeks, but then I realized... I was in prison for three years, Karliah. I was lonely. And she appeared like a ghost in the night, changed everything before I could blink. Any man in my place would have toyed with attraction like I did but... I have no idea who she is beyond the fact that we seemed doom to fight Alduin together, or die trying."

"So your relation is a business one," Karliah muses, settling back on her heels, the half-whittled arrow shaft in her hand forgotten. "I can understand business."

Larjan makes a face.

"Business makes it sound so... Cold. It's not business, it's more than that, by Talos, I'd die for her-"

"Stop saying that," Karliah interrupts. Larjan blinks rapidly, startled by the sudden wave of aggression and pain that comes off of her. The Wolf raises its haunches, but he wills it down.

"Why not?"

"Never die for someone else, Dragonborn." Karliah says, her lilac eyes serious and flickering with the fire's reflection. "If you care for someone and they care for you, for Nocturnal's sake do not die for them. You are not making some grand gesture of dedication. You are sentencing them to a lifetime of pain and regret."

"That's not what I meant..."

"Isn't it? Think carefully, Dragonborn. And if you take nothing else from our meeting, at least remember my words: In the end the greatest heroes aren't killed by armies or assassins in the night or powerful villains. They're killed by the ones that they fight to protect, who drove them to sacrifice to begin with. The ones we die for are the most dangerous enemies of all."

Her words send a chill down Larjan's spine, but he forces himself not to shudder under her fervent gaze. _She is too late_ , he thinks. _Because Istha and I have already sacrificed ourselves._

Karliah has her own fate to decide - her own choices to make. But his and Istha's lives follow different rules. One or both of them must defeat Alduin, and that kind of inevitable fate has already torn them from whatever paths in life they might have taken.

"I'm already dead," Larjan responds with a hollow smile. "So is Istha. We died at Helgen, months ago. A dragon burst out of time and interrupted our execution, but we're already dead, Karliah. Don't you see? We were dead the moment fate made us Dragonborn. She and I, we've just been living on borrowed time."

Karliah shakes her head sadly.

"Perhaps you're right, Dragonborn. I'm just a thief - I deal with shadows, and shadows alone. I live for my revenge. The rest of the world does not concern me."

Larjan thinks of the dragonblood laying stagnant in his veins, of the souls in his head that won't wake anymore. And he prays Istha will recover, for his sake, and for the world's.

After a long moment, Karliah speaks again.

"Larjan?" she asks. He grunts in response, his eyes fixed on Istha's smudged warpaint. Gold, like her primary motivation. "Your friend has fallen asleep. Would you mind getting some more wood for the fire? There's already a pile cut in that grove over there, I dropped it when I heard you coming."

Larjan trails a finger along Istha's sharp gray jaw, and crawls out of the tent. Karliah shakes her head as the Nord's back vanishes into the howling swirl of snow, and roasts a skeever over the fire.

Unbeknownst to either of them, crimson eyes blink open in the night, dazed and unfocused.

.

**_To be continued._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we have the reunion I promised you! Um. Don't be mad at me please.
> 
> Strangely enough, this chapter was one of the very first I planned out when I came up with the idea for this story. I hope it didn't move too fast - I thought it was a good way to tie together the main quest and the Guild storyline, but it got really long, really fast.
> 
> Tell me what you think of these new developments? 
> 
> P.S. There's a sequel in the works that covers the majority of the second part of the main questline. It'll be called 'The Ones We Stand By'. Very original, I know. Plotwise, things are going to get worse, Ulfric Stormcloak will ruin lots of plans, Elenwen makes a dramatic reappearance, so do those two Dunmer OCs I never really developed properly, and I'll finally be able to explain why there's two Dragonborn. Very exciting.


End file.
